Fear No Evil
by Hannah and Emma
Summary: A lead-up to The Dark Knight. When a young author visits Dr. Crane in Arkham to ask for an interview for her book, she sets off a chain of events that gets everyone in Gotham involved, and which might just uncover the real back story of the Joker... R & R
1. DISCLAIMER

DISCLAIMER:

Neither Hannah nor Emma own any of the characters from The Dark Knight, or any Batman characters otherwise. They are property of DC Comics and are subject to copyright and all that.

NOTE: Everything through about Chapter Ten was written before the release of The Dark Knight, so if it seems a little off... that's why.

Author Hannah wrote passages pertaining to the characters:

Jonathan Crane / Scarecrow  
Jack Napier / Joker  
Bruce Wayne / Batman  
Harvey Dent / Two-Face  
Edward (Eddie) Nigma  
Edward Sylas Nigma / The Riddler  
Warren White / Great White  
Selina Kyle / Catwoman  
Oswald (Os) Cobblepot / Penguin  
Margaret (Maggie) Pyle / Magpie  
Jarvis Tetch / Mad Hatter  
Pamela Isley / Poison Ivy  
Harleen Quinzel / Harley Quinn  
Grace Balin / Orca  
Arnold Wesker / The Ventriloquist  
Coleman Reece  
Peyton Riley / New Ventriloquist  
Salvatore Meroni  
Frederick Rhino  
Waylon Jones / Killer Croc  
James (Jim) Gordon  
Sarah Gordon  
James (Jimmy) Gordon, Jr.  
Barbara Gordon  
Alfred Penniworth  
Rachel Dawes  
Lucius Fox  
Gerald Crane  
Kitty Smith [OC]  
Jeannie Rose Smith [OC]  
Jessica Fox [OC]  
Rosa Hernandez [OC]  
Julio Hernandez [OC]  
Nico Hernandez [OC]  
Pablo Hernandez [OC]  
Penny Wright [OC]  
Henry Wright [OC]  
Any number of firemen, policemen, receptionists, paper-boys, bums, doctors, party-goers, et cetera.

Author Emma wrote passages pertaining to the characters:

Mayor Garcia  
Maria Goodhart [OC]  
Charles Goodhart [OC]  
Jeanette Rossini [OC]  
Olivia "Livvy" Gordon [OC]  
Todd ??? [OC]  
Thomas Hale [OC]  
Carly Fisher / Flicker [OC]  
Shawn Palmer [OC]  
Kaitlyn Creed / Fuse [OC]  
Robert Tassle / Boomer [OC]  
Benito Rossini [OC]  
Jenna Sweets [OC]  
Noah Sweets [OC]

Please read, review, and enjoy.

Reviews are MUCH APPRECIATED!

Thank you for your time, and we hope you enjoy our story.


	2. Chapter One

Arkham Asylum was a real dump.

Maria Goodhart shook the muck off of her shoe with an expression of disgust she usually reserved for cats. She understood that the building wasn't in the best part of town, but you'd think the janitors would at least make an _effort_, right? The gray walls outside were dusty and coated in vulgar graffiti. Actually, the graffiti made her feel a bit at home; her own neighborhood was more sleazy than most people preferred it. She turned her eyes to the entrance and, near the bottom right corner of the entrance steps, she spotted a dark stain that looked suspiciously like blood. Her nose wrinkled in disgust and she immediately looked away. The gang shit that went on in her own neighborhood was one thing, but at least it happened at night, out of sight and mind.

She just stared for a second before finally remembering why she'd come. The novelist sighed and readjusted the black purse slung over her shoulder. Her dysfunctional heels clicked annoyingly at the pavement with each step, but at least they matched her grey business suit in style. Even her brown hair, framing her face in a very impractical way, worked with her outfit. _If I ever have to do this again, screw good impressions,_ she swore to herself. This was ridiculous; she was just about to meet some loony in a mental institute, and she was dressed like a nervous teenager about to conduct her first interview.

Interview. Now, _that_ was some great irony.

The lady behind the front desk looked her over for about a minute before buzzing some security guards. Two burly guys in full uniform marched around the corner (their stiffness made Maria feel a bit better about her own) and nodded to her. "Shall we, gentlemen?" she quipped, which got a few raised eyebrows. She couldn't help it. This whole deal felt like some hostage exchange. Then again, in this place, who knew?

It took a few elevators and long, uncomfortably dark hallways to get to the room. Once there, the nerves started up again. Maria had been dealing with crazy people for a long, long time. Not only had she been working on her current research for years, her mother had been a psychologist. But something about meeting a criminal was intimidating. One of the guards pulled out a humongous ring of digital keys and swiped it in the sensor bar under the doorknob; the lock clicked and the door swung open under the guard's guiding hand. Maria calmed the butterflies in her stomach, put on her carefully practiced strictly-business face, and went through the white door.

"Afternoon, Mr. Crane."

He heard the familiar click and hiss of the lock as the door was opened, supposedly so another guard could come in and gawk at him. People did that, he realized; now that he was immobile, strapped down and unable to fend off the inanities of the world, they seemed to flock to him, either to ask questions with obvious answers or questions that were meant solely to mock the doctor, or just to sit and stare, like he was an attraction at some run-down roadside zoo. Perhaps that was they way they thought of him: as an animal. Perhaps that was the way the uneducated general public thought of all the patients in what had once been his asylum, his workplace, but was now his prison.

He had never considered Arkham a prison before; Arkham had always been a refuge, a safe place for those affected by the higher power of the mind, a refuge for the criminally insane, sometimes just the insane, and sometimes, just the criminals. He could not deny that Arkham had seen its share of shady business, what with the rise of Carmine Falcone and his band of half-witted muscle-heads, and that he, himself had taken part in it - but only for the good of research and science, he claimed. Nothing more.

Anyone who believed he would associate himself with such lowly thugs for any other reason was mad.

And now the once-proud doctor had become a side show, something the guards would drop by to look at before heading off to work in the various other wards of Arkham. It was not that he minded a little time off; it was that they had him tied up, locked securely into a straight-jacket, poised quite ridiculously in some kind of contraption that reminded him of an antique dentist's chair, or barber's chair, or something; surely this had not been put in under his watch. Perhaps this was one of those rooms that was never used, until the right kind of headcase came along that needed it.

If it had not been so humiliating, he might have been flattered.

He preferred not to look at those who came in to look at him. People liked a silent lunatic. And besides, without his customized fear-inducing hallucinogen, he was almost helpless. He was not a fear-provoking man at first glance, something he was more than aware of, but he also knew that his eyes (so he had been told on many occasions, though he never really saw evidence of it when he looked in the mirror) were mesmerizing, almost frightening, all in themselves. Crystalline blue and heavily-lidded, they almost seemed to capture light and hold it, and the doctor had been rumoured to "have the ability to see in the dark", "to see through solid objects", or even, once or twice, "to see into the minds of his patients". These were silly rumours, but he let them survive; it was better to be feared than loved. And besides, what with people like the Batman lurking about the streets of Gotham, who knew what kind of freaks you might come across in a place like this?

The door slid open. Jonathan Crane sighed, hunching his shoulders forward, burying his pointed face between them, preferring to let his overgrown bangs hide his face. _Take your look,_ he thought, _have your little jollies. Just leave me alone after you're through._ Then he heard, quite unexpectedly, the voice of a woman. His brow furrowed for a moment, and then, slowly, he lifted his eyes to her, and then the rest of his face, sallow, with high cheekbones and full, rosy lips, someone who might have been called attractive in Europe but who was a strange-looking creature here amongst the swarthy beach-boys and firemen who populated American pop culture. He stared at her, studying her. He had never seen her before in his life. Perhaps someone one of the guards had brought, to show off his little 'pet'?

But then she spoke his name. He turned his head, cocking it slightly, and watched her. He paused a moment, taking in her appearance. Whoever she was, she did not come from Gotham's sleazy back streets; here she was, all dressed up in her business suit, and for some reason, she had wanted to see him. "Speaking," he answered with a note of bitter sarcasm.

There was maybe a minute of silence before she caught herself staring. A chair propped up in the corner seemed inviting enough, and she set her bag on the floor next to it, seating herself with some difficulty (the high heels were really beginning to get on her nerves). She checked once to make sure the tape recorder hadn't broken in some freak accident, and decided not to turn it on quite yet. Then she sat and unconsciously stared some more.

She hadn't expected a crazed convict to appear so...normal. Well, obviously not normal, from what the news broadcasts had shown her about the incident several weeks ago. She'd seen the bodies, all of them eyes dilated and muscles contracted. There were even reports of hearts put under so much stress that they exploded. This was obviously one screwed up individual. To be honest, though, Crane looked more like a sophisticated upper-crust European.

With her careful eye, he _did_ hint at insanity. The eyes were the worst; creepy, deep, all the jazz you'd normally find in deranged horror novel characters. The Hannibal-esque chair didn't help, either. She got the eerie feeling that her nose was in danger of being bitten off, but grimaced and pushed it away. Crane was messed up. Maybe not one of her precious book characters, but messed up. She kept that thought in mind when she spoke again.

"I'm going to assume they didn't let you know I was coming. Or why," she said. It was obviously a question. She guessed that Arkham Asylum didn't get many interview requests for its inmates. People were so afraid of insanity nowadays. The corner of her mouth twitched at the thought.

Crane watched as she made her painful way across the room to sit in the chair that someone had set up, he assumed, for purposes of watching him, or whatever other unfortunate lunatic had inhabited this chair last. With that thought, he frowned a bit; he hoped the chair they had strapped him to was not stained with the remnants of the last person to have inhabited it. Blood, he was fine with, but hopefully the last madman who sat strapped to this chair had not found it a good place to drool on, or - Crane decided not to go into further possibilities as to the nature of the disagreeable residue on the "crazy chair". He would be out of there soon enough, so he just had to endure it for a bit longer.

Come to think of it, though, it did smell a bit like vomit. But only if he thought about it.

He pushed the thought from his mind and returned to the present, where the young woman was sitting and staring at him. He stared right back, unblinking, his head tilted slightly to the side, waiting for her to make the first move. If she wanted to just sit there and stare at him like his captors, that was her initiative. But he was not about to make it easy for her. He examined her face, her attire, her way of carrying herself; this was an intelligent woman, not like one of those flighty floosies who were usually associated with reporting cases like his, but he did not eliminate the possibility of her being some kind of reporter.

He blinked slowly, considering her. "I don't get many female callers," he answered. Then, "They don't feel the need to. The inmates here are used to having visitors… drop in unexpectedly." He sighed, his gaze moving to somewhere in the ceiling, as if scanning it for eavesdroppers. "But then again, you never know who might decide to _drop in_ unexpectedly," he added, his tone high, almost nonchalant. Then his gaze returned to her. "Though I'm going to go out on a limb here and say you're not a psychiatrist. Or a police official of any kind." He grinned at her. "No self-respecting doer of the law would be caught _dead_ in those heels," he said, amused.

He shifted in his seat, trying to get more comfortable. He rested a narrow shoulder against the back of the chair (for some reason, they had decided to sit him sideways in it - what was he, a lady on horseback?) and stared at her, unblinking, thoughtful. Then his eyes strayed as he went on, "No, I bet you're here because… you caught wind that there was some crazy doctor who did terrible experiments on his patients… and you want the whole - gory - story for your job, or for your own entertainment, or for some other reason that I won't go into… and you hoped that the best way to get it would be to go straight to the source." He spoke slowly and meticulously, emphasizing each important word with a dip or turn of the head. Then his eyes darted back to her face. "Am I close?" he asked with a strange, morbid smile.

Maria didn't know whether to be scared or laugh about the unexpected dark humor. As usual, she completely rejected the first idea, but wasn't in the mood for the latter. She settled on a smile to match his and unconsciously shifted her feet; a spasm of pain reminded her, once again, that heels were the worst idea on the face of the earth. The minute she got home, she'd be burning them. Even though she'd gotten them this morning.

First thing she should take note of: he was smart. Not that she hadn't expected it. Insanity was often found in geniuses, sadly enough. But she hadn't banked on smart and somewhat polite. Well, polite in the sense that he wasn't trying to get loose and ram a pencil down her throat.

"You're getting so close, it's a shame I've got to spill it. Limited time, you know. Things to do, people to see." _Stop rambling, nincompoop._ "I'm what you might call a novelist with her roots in psychology. You know a fair bit about it, I assume?"

She stopped there and reached down for her bag. The man seemed to like to talk (she couldn't fault him; being stuck in this room for a few weeks might instill a tendency to chat), so why not let him? Besides, there was absolutely no harm in getting on her interviewee's good side. Might lead to more productive conversations.

"Psychology." He smiled. Now they were getting into his field. He glanced down at her shoes again, then back up at her face. "Take off your shoes," he said, "stay a while." He could see that he made her nervous, not in the kind of way that a serial killer or a caged gorilla made someone nervous, but in a more psychological sense. That made him feel a little better about himself; even tied up, he could still be intimidating.

"Pass. The floors are freezing in here." And disgusting, she felt like adding, but he used to direct this place, and she couldn't risk offending him so early in the game. Her tape recorder was now in her hand, and she made sure to keep it where he could clearly see it. She felt like she was dealing with an injured dog. _Here it is, boy. Don't get worried, it's not going to hurt you._

"So you're a writer," he mused. "Interesting field. You know what they say about writers… how they're all crazy as loons." He grinned. "At least you'll have company, if you intend to stay for a bit." He watched as she reached down into her bag. There were endless possibilities for a woman's bag - who knew what they carried in there? A notepad, perhaps… makeup, maybe, or a recorder… or maybe, if he was really unlucky like he knew a few of Falcone's thugs to be, she would whip out a firearm and end his miserable existence right then and there.

But he doubted it. No one with the mindset of a killer wore heels. And besides, he had never met the woman, so she had no initiative to have something against him. But women, like all people of Gotham, were unpredictable, so he quietly held his breath and watched with apprehension as she pulled out… a tape recorder. He let out his breath in a reassured hiss. At least he did not have to worry about his physical well-being during this session. Usually, when he got visitors, that was not necessarily a given…

There was really nothing she could say to the writer jab. Of course she knew her colleagues were a bit loopy in the head. She preferred to think that she wasn't, and that was that. Crane could think anything he wanted, not that he needed her permission. She was beginning to get the impression that Jonathan Crane did whatever the hell he wanted, straightjacket or no.

Maria was surprised, however, to feel a tiny flicker of sympathy for him. It was sad, in a twisted way, that a mind like his had been warped so that it couldn't see the light of day. He would probably have made huge breakthroughs in the fields of psychology and medicine, if only he hadn't chosen to go about his research in such a gruesome way.

"I have been in here for so long," he said in that strange, wistful tone of his, his eyes straying again, "and you're the first one who actually had anything to say to me..." He scoffed. "Besides the childish Gotham police force, and that pesky Rachel Dawes… she seemed rather interested." He looked back at her. "By the way," he added, drawing out his words, "we seem to have been improperly introduced. I'm afraid I didn't catch your name? I might want to remember it in the future, should we… cross paths again, sometime."

She let out a little sigh and shook her head, before realizing that he'd asked for an introduction. "Chloe. You'll get my last name later, if there's time," she replied. "I actually came here to interview you. I'm collecting a massive number of case studies on mentally insane individuals." She cringed a bit, wondering if her explanation was too forward. "Any insights on mental disorders on your part would be welcome, too. I just hoped that you'd be willing to participate."

One thing she'd decided on before beginning the project was that she'd gather information only if her subjects were willing. The forced interviews she'd seen in several recent publications made her sick. What was the point of studying things like this if you had to force it out of someone? Sure, it may have reduced the number of cases she could study (drastically), but at least it kept the project somewhat moral.

"Mentally insane?" he asked. He let out a short, quiet laugh. Then another, a bit louder. Then, unable to contain himself, he started to laugh fully, a bitter, hateful sort of laughter that did not have anywhere in it the sound of joy. Then, pulling a straight face back on, he replied, "Is that what you think of me, _Chloe?_ Mentally insane? 'Messed up in the head', maybe? 'Off my rocker'? 'Not playing with a full deck'?" He looked around him now, at his enclosure, as if his gaze encompassed the whole of Arkham Asylum. "You're probably the type of person who goes home to your family and jokes about 'the loony bin', or 'the happy farm', or 'the nuthouse'. The last one is the most popular among…" he looked back at her now, staring at her, point-blank, "…the uninformed."

Uninformed?

FUCK HIM.

Up until that word, Maria had begun to feel a bit ashamed of herself. So much for stepping carefully around the subject; she'd just plain put it out there, and not in the most gentle terms. However, the second he said "uninformed", she lost it. _The jackass can go straight to hell. Forget this stupid thing, I'm out of here. If he knew what I'd seen..._

She fumed silently, though, knowing that she wouldn't leave. The one thing she'd learned in her two years of dealing with the mentally unstable was patience. It seemed her lessons were going to come in handy.

He glanced down at her feet, in those uncomfortable shoes, one last time before returning his gaze to her face. "Suit yourself," he said. "It's probably for the best, anyways. You wouldn't want to be walking where somebody… died." He let the comment sink in, a twisted smile beginning to creep up the edges of his mouth. "But that's neither here nor there. You're here for some kind of interview and you're going to have it, whether I like it or not. That's usually the way things go, when you're dealing with… crazies." He glanced up to the ceiling again. "Whether they like it… or not," he repeated, mostly to himself.

She waited for his little tirade to be over, spending most of it inspecting the room again. It was completely white except for the shaded are in the corner. From being outside, she knew that this had to be the two-way mirror. The security guards were probably looking in to make sure that Crane's laughter from a moment ago didn't mean that Maria had been injured. Now, _that_ was creepy. It meant that she was out of control. Maria didn't like being out of control.

Crane looked at her again. She was smart, this one. Certainly, she was a lot smarter than she let on, wearing those ridiculous heels. There was no way Chloe was her real name. She would not have given it so easily if it were. You did not give your name to people like Jonathan Crane, because those were the kinds of people that would track you down, sneak into your house, and watch you while you slept, if they were feeling particularly mild that day. That, combined with the fact that she was studying psychology, marked her as a woman of intelligence. No half-witted wannabe could have made it this far.

More often than not, people who set their mind on studying psychology often ended up in padded rooms in Crane's asylum. He had seen many of them, and had locked the containment rooms of a number of them, himself. But there was something about this girl - _Chloe_, he decided; he would play her game - that marked her as a challenge. A hurtle in the obstacle course of freedom from his own asylum. A mind game. Crane grinned. He loved mind games, especially when he won.

"Perhaps you would like to start with my profession?" he asked, "Or would you like to start even earlier? Say… my childhood?" He smirked at her. "Isn't that how all of these stories usually start? 'He grew up a sweet young boy in a rural farm town…'?"

Maria's head finally whipped up, the smile from earlier replaced with a scowl. "Listen up. I don't interview people who don't want it. Not that _you'd_ understand, but it's not morally upright." She had finally decided to abandon her polite mask, and went for more of a direct approach. "If you want, I can just walk out of here right now."

"But _could_ you?" He let the question hang for a moment, staring at her, a grin that hinted at deep-set insanity playing at the corners of his mouth. "Could you, _really_? I mean, the world is full of crazies, but how many of them have actually - _challenged_ - you?" He waited for the bait to sink, then went on, "Because I know for a fact that you like a good challenge. Oh, no, they didn't tell me anything about you before you came in," he assured her, watching her face, "I can just tell. I was always good at being able to read people - it's part of why I do what I do." He fell silent for a moment, watching her. "Am I wrong?" he asked quietly.

Some people were easy to read, and some people were nigh impossible. This writer fell somewhere in the middle, but closer to the 'hard to read' end of the metaphorical spectrum. While he could tell she was intelligent and liked a good challenge, what really made her tick, the deep-seated things that haunted her dreams at night, probably having something to do with her childhood, were harder to tell. With time, he knew, everything would eventually become apparent, but he had so little time with her, as it was, the he doubted he would be able to crack the tough shell of her outer character.

That was a challenge, he decided, for another day.

Maria refused to drop his gaze. Refused to. She might be a bit sloppy, and forgetful, and even slow to catch on, but she was no coward. When he finally popped the question (hm, bad way to think of that), she replied firmly, "I could leave right now without any qualms. Regretfully, books are more interesting and sell better when they contain quotes from a famous individual. And since I don't have many of their numbers in my little black book..." She sighed dramatically and shrugged.

"Famous nutcases?" Crane asked. "Have you tried contacting Mel Gibson?" He chuckled slightly at his own joke, then sighed, shaking his head. "Perhaps you should be interviewing someone else, then…" he said. "Like… the Batman. Obviously, a man who runs around in a cape, dressed as a bat, has problems." He smirked at her. "Am I wrong?"

He paused. He wished he could be free of his cumbersome straightjacket; a face-to-face talk at a conference table, sitting perched in his crisp business suit, hands folded neatly before him, glasses sitting meticulously on his intelligent face, having a talk like two human beings, would be much preferable to this, this… _Silence of the Lambs_, _The Life of David Gale_, Michael-Alig-why'd-you-do-it type of interview you only saw in the movies.

"I'll do your interview," he said. "I'll answer your questions. I'll cooperate like a good little crazy, and at the end of the day, I'll probably even receive a pat on the head for it. Maybe they'll even take me out to play fetch. Who knows? But don't forget, at the end of our little session, you still have to tell me your last name... _Chloe_." He grinned at her, sarcastic, bitter. "Would you like to start, or should I?"

His question didn't stop running through her mind, even after he'd moved on. Could she just leave? It was true, she had plenty enough stories to publish the book, but she was sure this one would make it a hit. At this point, she was even willing to bet that picking his mind on the topic of insanity would be fun. But she refused to believe that he had any sort of hold over her. She was in control. As usual.

And then there was the little matter of her name. He'd obviously not believed the false one she'd given him. It didn't matter that much, she decided. So long as he didn't know her real one, she'd be fine. But what about his insistence to know her last name? He wouldn't settle for another false name, she was sure of that. And worst case scenario would be him refusing another interview. (By now, she was sure she'd need more than a day.) Maybe the problem would work itself out.

"I've actually got a quick question before we begin, out of personal interest. Totally off the records and everything," Maria finally said, saying the words slowly as she thought about them. She crossed her arms over her stomach and stuck her thumbnail into her mouth, a habit she'd never been able to break that showed up when she was wondering whether she should say something. "Why do you believe people become mentally ill?"

"Off the record?" Crane smiled. "What, not interesting enough to make it to the final cut of your bestseller?" He exhaled, pursing his lips and furrowing his brow in thought. "Why do I…?" he began to repeat the question, then lapsed into silence, thinking. His lucid eyes travelled in an arch across the room, as if the answer were hidden, encrypted, in the walls or ceiling of his enclosure. "The mind is a powerful entity," he began. "There are hidden facets of the human psyche that no one knows about, and very few people care to… it is my job to discover these facets and to understand them." He looked at her. "You could say, that's why I am… the way I am."

This was humiliating. He was unable to move, unable to speak freely… he was certain they were being watched by Arkham security (at this he almost laughed; that was an oxymoron if ever he had heard one), which was totally unnecessary, he thought; what, did they think he would spring out of his seat and attack his interviewer? Besides, he thought, he would never dream of breaking out of his own asylum.

That was just crazy.

"I've seen my share of head cases in my day, as you can imagine," he told her. "People come through here, most of them totally harmless, with their… multiple personalities, or their… schizophrenic hallucinations." He wondered what kind of mentally ill patients this writer had interviewed so far. Surely none of them were dangerous, he figured. It was usually the gentle ones that made it into the books. Even people like Hannibal Lector were completely harmless when interviewed, as, he supposed, he was, too, now, at this point in life… strapped down like a prisoner, stripped of his pride, his position, but worst of all, his mask and his toxin. The Arkham security guards were probably having a heyday with that mask. He almost flinched to think of a couple of idiots toying around with it, playing "Mister Mask" behind the scenes and having a laugh at Crane's expense.

They would get theirs, he assured himself. When he was free, they would get theirs. _We'll see who'll be laughing then._

"But some of them are… dangerous," he went on. "But those ones are hard to tell. Usually, the people who seem the most intelligent, the most meticulous, the most… how do you say it? - _Normal_… are the ones who look at a person and see a corpse instead, killed in a thousand different ways. They're the ones who have at least three escape routes planned out in each building they enter, and they're the ones that people never - ever - suspect." He grinned at her.

"Perhaps you've met some of these individuals," he added. "And you didn't even know it."

_That's right,_ he thought. _Psyche her out a little. Make her question her acquaintances, her co-workers, herself, just a little. _Crane was good at chipping away at people, but this tough writer was proving difficult to crack.

"Why do I think people become mentally ill?" he repeated her question again. "There are two ways I could answer that… the simple answer, nature. Sometimes, people inherit mental illnesses from parents, like… schizophrenia, or… Alzheimer's. It's in their genes, it's in their blood to be a little loopy. But then the complex answer… sometimes, people are driven to it." The smile began to fade from his face as his tone darkened. "Sometimes, people begin as normal as you or I… or rather, as normal as _you_." He paused here for effect, then went on, "Usually these people are kind, intelligent, your average good citizen, doing his part for the good of humanity… he grows up a farm boy, goes to college, gets a job, falls in love… But something happens to them that, inch by inch, begins to drive them over the edge. It's hard to tell at first, but eventually that twisted side begins becoming more and more apparent, until one day, you look at that person and you say… how could I have not seen this happening to you? …How could I have not seen this happening… to _me_?"

He paused again, watching her face. "The mind is a human being's most powerful weapon, Chloe." he told her. "Never forget that."

Well, that certainly wasn't the answer Maria had expected.

For a person so obsessed with fear's effects on a person's mind, she'd expected that to be his answer. What he'd given was the typical doctor's response, with a bit more of a morbid twist. She couldn't stop herself from sighing, and her face fell a bit. Here she thought she'd found someone who matched her interest in fear (interest, she reminded herself, _not_ obsession), but it seemed he was just interested in getting her to leave. Fine, then.

She'd given up at this point coming up with witty comebacks to his jibes. What was the point, anyway? As much as his opinion might be worth to her (which, at this point, wasn't much at all), she wasn't accustomed to care about what others thought of her. So she let the little comments hinting at her own insanity slide.

Besides, she knew exactly what she was: a dog-loving twenty-seven-year-old author who lived in some crummy neighborhood in Gotham. She wasn't going to suddenly snap because of a criminal's stupid _opinion_.

She couldn't let his last comment go, however. "Oh, believe me, Mr. Crane...or is it Doctor?...I couldn't forget that little lesson if I tried."

She finally picked up the tape recorder from its position on her lap and pressed the button to turn it on. A tiny red light lit up in the device's corner, and she set it back down. "On to the interview, then. Ignoring the nature cause you mentioned, since that doesn't seem to have affected you, let's move on the second plausible cause." She pulled a messy pile of computer paper from one of the files in her bag and thumbed through it, finally selecting one. "Two weeks ago you, with the help of the League of Shadows vigilante group, pumped fear-inducing toxins into Gotham's water supply. You still claim it was for a study of fear's effects on the human brain."

The woman paused for a moment. She was still amazed that Gotham's police had let this incident slide right under their noses. Shaking her head slightly, she slipped the papers back into the folder. "I have to assume you'd been...studying this for quite a while before the public incident I just mentioned," she explained. "How did you begin? What drove you to find out exactly how far a mind can be pushed?"

She realized that she'd leaned forward quite a bit in her seat, and sat back with an attempt to relax. She hadn't meant to sound so interested. She kept her gaze steady, though, and one hand on the recorder.

"Was it that long ago?" Crane asked with a strange chuckle. "I seem to have lost track of time… everything seems to meld together in a place like this." He stared at a spot a few inches above her head. "It's Doctor… still… despite all of this." He indicated his bindings. "They can take away my position and my credibility, but they can't take away my PhD… no, it's still somewhere… in with my other things." His mask, paperwork, toxin, and diploma were just about everything he carried with him in his slender briefcase, and were just about the only things, if push came to shove, that he really needed, regardless. All else was superficial.

"As for your question about fear," he went on, his eyes travelling slowly along the wall, "The only think we have to fear… is fear, itself." His eyes flicked back to her face and a spiteful, sarcastic grin split his face. "Don't you think?" he asked.

"Fearing fear is ridiculous and redundant," she replied, mouth set into an irritated line. She watched a very faint shadow move behind the two-way mirror; it seemed that the guards were off for their lunch break. "I've always hated that quote. We all die eventually. Any amount of pain is bearable. And getting hurt is certainly a given in life. So why be afraid of anything?"

She paused for a second. This wasn't the main topic of her book. There was nothing in this discussion that would lead to anything but her own personal interest. But she was too far into it by now. Her thumb found its way back to her mouth.

Crane inhaled sharply, then let the air out in a long, relaxed breath. "Fear is the most fascinating of all the human emotions," he went on. "You've never heard the expression, 'happied to death'? 'He's too mad to do it, maddy-cat.'" He chuckled at the last one. "Masters of horror rake in the millions every year. No other human emotion has been so exploited by the media, by businesses selling life insurance, house alarms, car alarms, security cameras… the only thing that makes these sell is fear.

"Why do people wear a helmet while bicycling? Or a safety-belt while driving? Or even a condom for sex?" he continued. "Fear of the consequences if they don't. Some people feed on the fear of others, and some are so plagued by fear that it eats away at them until they become shadows… wisps of the people they once were, figments, reduced to rocking in the cell of an asylum." He turned his head slightly, considering her. "I merely took that emotion and exploited it, like so many others…" he told her. "But I did it for the good of science. Ra's Al Ghul and his League of Shadows wanted to help me… so in return, I helped them. I spread panic throughout the rotting city of Gotham, and they did the rest."

He began to chuckle to himself. "There's nothing wrong with instilling a little fear… into the hearts of the masses," he said quietly.

"By looking at only fear, the mass public is a bunch of squawking idiots," she continued in a rather bitter tone. "If one can perform the simple task of convincing herself...or himself," she corrected herself, nodding in his direction, "that there is nothing to fear, then wouldn't that person reach a point where madness couldn't affect them?"

Her mind was drawn back to a lecture she'd once attended at college. The professor spoke about much the same topic, fear. She'd approached him after class and asked the same question she'd just asked Dr. Crane. He had smiled at her like she was a child and replied, "My dear, that is not a simple task. Unreasonable fears, sometimes called phobias, are deeply rooted in us all." With that, he'd simply walked away.

The conversation still made Maria angry to this day. Why wasn't it possible for a person to evade fear? She'd done it, and one person was enough.

"After all," she added, "it seems that high amounts of stress are what cause the brain to function abnormally. By removing the number one and perhaps only cause of stress..."

"Fearing nothing would make one… _superhuman_," Crane replied, staring straight at her. "Do you consider yourself to be superhuman… Chloe?"

He sighed and settled back into a more comfortable position in the crazy-chair. "Let me tell you a story," he said lightly, as if he were pulling out a book of fairy-tales to read to her from. "Then you can tell me whether or not you still hold in contempt those who are driven to the brink of insanity… by things that you consider so… trivial." He looked away, a kind of disgusted frown on his face as he considered how to word his story to her. It would not be an easy task, but she was proving a worthy adversary. Perhaps it was time to pull out the big guns… and he could tell, by watching her face, that there was something going on in the room behind them. Perhaps the guards were leaving.

Now was his chance. It was now or never.

"There was once a girl," he began. "A young girl, younger than you are now. She grew up in a highly religious household, in the farmlands of Georgia… of all places." He scoffed, then went on, "She was a good girl, for the most part… but she was only human. One day a man came riding into the young girl's life, just like that… and then, just like that, he was gone." He chose his words carefully, making sure to be as vague as possible on the details of the story. "But he was not forgotten, by neither the young girl… or her extremely religious mother. The young girl's father had died years back… the local rumour was that the girl's mother had killed him." He shrugged. "But that's neither here nor there.

"The young girl soon gave birth to a child… a son. We'll call him 'Peter' for now." Here was the tricky part… telling the full story without giving too much away. "Peter's mother was too young to be having children, so the night Peter arrived, she took him into the back fields, where they usually planted their corn, and dug a little hole… to plant the seed of her sins into." Metaphorical, but it got the point across. "As she was about to start burying the child alive, her own mother, Peter's grandmother, stopped her… she took Peter in as her own. A short time later, Peter's mother vanished… no body was found, but everyone assumed the worst." He exhaled sharply. "As people have a tendency to do.

"The grandmother had a large house, and outside her house was a large corn field, and in that corn field there was a scarecrow, just like any other… but despite that scarecrow, the crows would come and feed on her corn, hundreds of them, huge, vicious creatures…" He suppressed a shudder at the thought of the cruel birds. "And the grandmother raised Peter as her own, taking him to Sunday services, teaching him everything about her religion that she could possibly think of… but that was not good enough for her." He stopped, frowning darkly. "She had to instil the fear of God into the boy.

"And then, one day, for no discernable reason, the crows that had been attacking the grandmother's corn… turned their attacks on the boy. Of course, he thought it was a sign from God, and so he did everything he could to be the good Christian boy his grandmother wanted him to be… but nothing he did was good enough. Day after day, the crows would tear at his clothes, claw at his face, snap at his fingers…" He paused, caught his breath, and then continued, "One day, the boy followed his grandmother as she was taking his clothes to be washed… and he watched her…"

He stopped. This would be hard to describe. "He watched as she took a dead rat… and began spreading its blood all over his clothes." His expression darkened. "Peter's own grandmother had been making the crows attack him… all that time." he said. "So one night, while she was praying… Peter came in… with a backhoe, the kind used for gardening…" He paused again, caught his breath. "…And killed her. Then… knowing all of his clothes had been stained with blood… he went outside and… took the clothes off of the scarecrow… the only ones that weren't tainted…" He stopped. It was impossible to go on.

He sat in silence for a moment, then looked up at his interviewer, no longer smiling. "Now you tell me," he said, "if there is no plausible cause for unescapable… insanity."

She was going to pass out.

She tried to get out a nod, or a word of understanding, or agreement, or _something_, but she seemed to have lost the ability to breathe. The room swam in front of her eyes. Finally, she choked out with a weak smile, "I think...I think I'm going to head out now." She pressed the "off" button on the tape recorder with some difficulty and stuffed it back into her bag, fingers quivering.

"Thank you." She didn't need small-talk right now. She needed a bubble bath, or her German shepherd Max, or some soothing classical music. Just...not small talk. Once again, though, she couldn't afford to lose this story. As much as she didn't want to come back, or ever sit in this room again, she _needed_ this story. That much she was certain of at this point. Not only could this make her book a best-seller, on a certain level she needed to hear the rest of this man's story.

He did not even look a her. He would give her that much dignity. He had scared her, this great sceptic of the effects, or even the existence, of fear; or disturbed her, at the very least. His story was enough to send even the strongest reeling; it was like nothing most people had ever heard. Asylums were full of terrible life stories, but Crane had always prided himself on his own, on the fact that he had endured, had survived, to tell the story. Whenever someone came to Arkham and whined to him about having a terrible life, how they had lived in a slum with a single mother who had to take care of more children than she could handle and a father that dealt cocaine on the corner… he smiled to himself, just a bit.

But, for some reason, he had never been so affected by telling his story before. Usually, it was across the table from a cowering patient. "You think your life is bad? My mother tried to bury me alive and my grandmother set crows on me as a child." Perhaps it was the shortness of the statement that had never made him actually think about the reality, the horrific nature, of the story. And even now, he couldn't help but realize that saying it had happened to him, "to me", seemed foreign. It was almost as if he had trained himself to think of the story as happening to someone else, someone who never existed… someone who was not, in any essence, _him_.

He looked up, watching her leave. She seemed to be in a hurry to leave. He wondered if she would be back… there was a half-and-half possibility. On the one hand, perhaps he had scarred her and she would now go seek out psychiatric attention, or go home and have a good laugh when she listened to playback of his story on her tape-recorder… but on the other hand, perhaps he had piqued her interest, caught hold of her, and she would be inevitably drawn back to his enclosure for further 'sessions.'

Either way, he knew that they would cross paths again, someday.

"You never told me your last name," he reminded her, but it was too late. She was already gone.


	3. Chapter Two

Back at her tiny apartment, she called the receptionist at Arkham and made her request. The woman seemed to take it as a joke, but her laughter soon stopped when Maria didn't join in. After nearly a half hour of arguing and needling and convincing, the lady finally gave in after letting her know (for the umpteenth time) that she was crazy. With a sigh of relief mixed with exhaustion, Maria hung the phone back into its cradle.

Why the _hell_ was she doing this? she wondered as she absentmindedly stroked Max's fuzzy head. His wagging tail smacked her thigh with comforting force, and she took a seat at the kitchen table, taking a minute to look at her temporary home. Until she was able to buy a house of her own Maria was stuck in this hellhole. The hallway door opened into a tiny kitchen and an even smaller living space beyond that. To the right, a door led to the only bedroom. Usually the place felt like a prison. Now, it offered a scrap of comfort.

Maybe she should be the one in the crazy chair. Was she masochistic? Any normal person would have backed off after that little episode. Inborn stubbornness was one thing, but this felt more like insanity. Maria sighed and got up. It was time for some well-earned sleep, if she could get any.

"Looks like you got yourself a girlfriend, Doctor Crane," an intelligent-looking African-American woman said as she opened the door of his enclosure, letting herself in, and then closed it behind her. She had once been Crane's second-in-command on the Arkham medical staff, and now had been promoted, with the admittance of her overseer to his own mental institute, to head medical examiner for the patients at Arkham - which meant she was now Crane's doctor, as well. He smirked at her, unamused.

"Well, you know how it is, Jessica," he said with a strange, breathy laugh, "women love a man in a… straightjacket."

Jessica frowned at him, holding her clipboard, tapping her pen distractedly against her full lips. "I have to admit, that doesn't look comfortable," she told him.

"Yes, and it's not really my colour," Crane answered, bitter sarcasm dripping from every word. "Doesn't go well with my eyes."

"All right, Doctor Crane," she said with a patient smile. "That's enough. You know full well why you're being restrained to that jacket."

"Because I'm an insane and dangerous criminal and one of the security guards is afraid I might jump them as soon as I'm let out of it?" Crane answered, still just as bitter. Jessica looked over at him, an eyebrow raised. She had spent enough time around the man that she knew what he looked like out of the straightjacket; he was a slenderly-built man with barely any meat on his bones, and she would have been surprised if he reached five-foot-nine. He was not exactly the type of man one would have anything to fear from; but, then again, fear was Crane's profession and sole passion. She smiled understandingly at him and shook her head.

"I'm sorry, Doctor Crane," she said, "but I can't let you out of that straightjacket. And you know I would if I could."

"I know, Jessica," he sighed. "I know you would. - What do you need today? Blood samples, urine samples… see if I'm under the influence of anything?"

"None of that, but you do need a haircut," she commented.

He shook his bangs into his eyes and turned to look at her. She smiled. "You know, they said you didn't have a sense of humour," she commented, looking at her clipboard.

He blew his bangs out of his eyes and looked away. "They're right," he answered.

"Well, I was just coming in to tell you that the writer who was here today - "

"Yes, her… what was her name, again?" Crane asked, turning to look at Jessica. "I don't remember."

"It's M - " Jessica stopped suddenly. "Nobody ever told you her name, Doctor," she said with a disapproving frown. "She specifically asked us not to."

He grinned at her. "She's afraid I'll kill her in her sleep?" he asked. "Cut her brakes? Put toxins in her water?"

Jessica raised her eyebrows and looked down at her clipboard. "It's been known to happen," she muttered, loud enough for him to hear.

"So, what did she want?" Crane asked. "Therapeutical compensation for a scarring session with one of Arkham's psychopaths? Did she leave something here? One of her shoes, perhaps?"

"No," Jessica answered, "she wanted to know if she could come in and talk to you tomorrow."

Crane raised an eyebrow and looked over at Jessica. "She… did?" he asked, surprised.

Jessica nodded. "Seems you really made an impression on her, Doctor Crane," she said. She looked at her clipboard one last time, then nodded. "Well, it looks like I've got no other business here." She crossed to the door, opened it, and looked back at him. "Good night, Doctor Crane," she said, and then closed the door behind her.

The next morning marked the beginning of a fine day. Hardly a cloud in the clear sky (which was remarkable in itself; the usual smog covering the city seemed to have disappeared), no sign of thunderheads, a light spring breeze in the air.

Maria woke up and sneezed twice in a row, eyes watering and burning like the pits of hell.

Later, standing in front of her bathroom sink, she spent about five minutes throwing every swear word she knew at the mirror. Allergies really were the work of the devil, especially when one wore contacts. The tiny blue-tinted disks refused to go in her irritated eyes. Well, that meant one of two things. She could leave any form of eyewear at home and hope for the best (which was a very unappealing option, considering she was legally blind), or wear her glasses for the first time in years.

With a sigh, she reached for their case.

Twenty minutes later found her sitting in her car in the parking lot of Arkham. Trying (and failing) to come up with excuses. She could be sick, or her dog could be dying, or her long-lost stepsister Rosa could be holding her toothpicks ransom...The last one made her laugh. At least she had given up on her stiff attire from yesterday. Today she wore her usual outfit of a collared shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Her hair was yanked up in a ponytail. Even with her grey-green eyes hidden behind her glasses, she felt much more comfortable. Maybe today would be a good day after all.

The same receptionist stood behind the counter inside, and she called the guards without Maria saying a word. "Planning to stay long today?" she asked, inspecting her nails with a tiny, mocking smile. Maria smiled along with her. She knew what she must have looked like, shooting out of here last night. Let the stupid college grad have her laugh. _She_ wasn't going to be a bestselling author.

The hallways were already beginning to feel familiar as Maria and her two escorts went along. She wondered if anyone had ever gotten lost in here. The thought made her uncomfortable. She was with two guards; there was no chance of that.

And finally she stood in front of the door again. She took her glasses off and cleaned them, watching through the two-way mirror. Same situation as yesterday, then. Too bad she hadn't been able to convince...Jessica, was it?...of her second request. Maybe she'd been a bit too abrupt about it. With a sigh, Maria nodded, and the guard opened the door. This was beginning to feel like a routine.

"Good morning, Doctor Crane."

The door opening jolted him from his light, fitful sleep, and he looked up, a little surprised, at his visitor. It was Jessica, always his first visitor, always his last. He settled down into a more nonchalant, sarcastic relaxation, and smiled at her.

"_Ah, mes fidèles visiteur retours_." He sometimes wondered if Jessica understood him; he did not doubt it, but even if she didn't, it wouldn't make much difference. Either way, she already knew him to be a little bit crazy, so tossing in a little bilingualism would not hurt much. "_Bien qu'avec regrets pour ne pas me libérer de ma prison. Hélas_." He shrugged his shoulders to indicate, alas.

Sometimes he used this method to get people to leave him alone, since most people were weak-minded and did not react positively to someone switching languages on them. Some people were downright scared by others who spoke foreign languages. It was a strange, but true, phenomenon that Crane had come across in his studies. Many people, when speaking to someone (particularly when it was over the telephone) would freeze up and become, in essence, frightened when someone speaking a different dialect answered on the other line. German was the most frightening language, followed by the other languages from that part of the world, but then French came in, a late contender. People reacted differently to languages like Arabic, Spanish and Italian. Italian made people swoon. Arabic and Spanish annoyed them. And then when people spoke English, their accents made all the difference in the world. Women loved an Australian, British or Irish accent, while men thought a Swedish accent was, well, sexy.

Crane had never been able to understand the concept of "sexy". Which made sense, considering it was the farthest thing from "fear" one could possibly look for.

"You're rather chatty this morning, Doctor Crane," Jessica commented on his seemingly uplifted nature.

Crane sighed, returning to his slightly peeved, normal mode. "A lack of sleep induces a sense of artificial giddiness in the human brain," he said. "Perhaps you should read my paper on it sometime, Jessica."

"Very impressive, Monsier Crane," Jessica replied with a smirk, butchering the language. "But you might want to think about switching back to English now. You've got a visitor."

"_Un visiteur_?"

"Good morning, Doctor Crane."

Crane looked up in interest as his so-called visitor entered the cell. It was the same woman who had visited him yesterday, Chloe, she had called herself, M-, as he knew her to be, really… She wore a rather more sensible outfit today, and seemed a bit more confident in her stride. Perhaps she had had time to think over everything they had talked about the previous day and had come back with more of her theories on the ways the human psyche could conquer fear merely by thinking itself out of it. _Well,_ he thought, _wouldn't life be nice if it were only that simple._ Maybe then he would be able to think himself out of his straightjacket. Jessica shut the door, leaving the two of them alone once again.

"_Fearadh na fáilte_," he said, watching her cross the room and sit down in her usual chair. "It means, 'a hearty welcome', in Irish Gaelic." He grinned at her. "I believe you're my first returning visitor. Besides my doctor, of course. But that can't be avoided… checkups and the like. Got to make sure I… still have a pulse." He smirked.

He was not sure why he had chosen Irish Gaelic to introduce today's session; perhaps it was because it was such a rare language to find in a place like Gotham, where clipped English was the norm; or maybe he was trying to humanize himself a bit more to his interviewer. _I'm just like you… I learn like any other human being._ He had never been given a chance to speak it with anyone else; usually, when a patient did not speak a word of English, he was forced to lapse into Spanish or French to communicate and indicate their symptoms. He had taken it upon himself to learn the three most common languages - English, Spanish, and French - and then, for his own entertainment (and for sentimental heritage reasons? Perhaps that had lurked at the back of his mind at one time, but he had completely forgotten it) to learn Irish Gaelic. But in the rare occasion that a patient came in that spoke a language Crane did not, Crane would not prolong the frustration of finding a translator: his toxin worked just as well. It did not matter what language you spoke when all you did was scream, cry, and rock.

He grinned devilishly to himself. He was an awful person, he had to admit, but he amused himself.

"So, have you come for another _cuir agallamh ar_?" He was entertaining himself, but he was sure he was driving her crazy, so he decided to return to plain English. "Interview," he specified. "Another interview for your… book." He had been tempted, but decided against it. "Shall we start from where we left off, or was there something specific you were wanting to ask me today?"

"What's this?" Maria replied, dropping her things on the floor without a second look. "The dour doctor is cheerful this morning?" She paused to rub her eyes (still more red and irritated than she liked), and finally looked Crane in the eye.

"Good night? Or just happy to see me?" She caught herself about to smile and straightened her features.

The temptation to grin went completely away when he reminded her of their last "session". Start where they left off? She wasn't sure she could take another glimpse into his past life. Even with the metaphors Crane had used, it was too much to handle. Fortunately, she had plenty of questions planned. Unfortunately, that little stab of sympathy that had bothered her the other day was coming back, especially since the nurses had refused her request. Maybe it was time to try her second idea.

"I've got an idea to make today more...interesting for you," she explained. "Are you up for a little trading, Dr. Crane?"

Crane inclined his head, watching her carefully, pinning her to her seat with his pellucid blue eyes. "As good a mood as I can be," he answered, "under… the circumstances." He did not appreciate her characterizing him like a child, and if anything were going to murder his artificially-induced semi-buoyant mood, it would be childish inanities like these. "My night was restful. At least I never get lonely at night… I've always got arms wrapped around me, snug and warm." He grinned resentfully at this. "Maybe you should try it sometime. It's a great cure for the common… melancholy."

He lifted his head then, seemingly looking down on her, and considered her for a moment. "You're wearing glasses today," he noted. "I don't seem to remember you wearing them before." He smirked. "An outward illusion of intelligence," he noted. He, himself, had worn glasses at one time, but since being locked up, they had been confiscated. Perhaps they thought he would use them to assault someone… or to read something. God help them if he started _reading_. He almost chuckled at this.

Crane turned his head slightly, considering her offer. "Unless you mean trading places," he answered slowly, "I'm going to have to ask for more… specific details." He inhaled, paused, and then added, "However, if you would like to be the one in the straightjacket answering questions while I sit in the chair and quiz you… I might be inclined to accept your request... Chloe." He smiled at her, bitterly.

Her temper flared up a bit at the mention of her glasses. _Illusion_ of intelligence? Good God, it was easy to piss him off. He didn't seem to like being thought of as anything else but a very capable adult. That was something that could come in handy, though, so she calmed herself and made a note to remember.

She nodded then, and self-consciously cleaned her glasses again. "Airborne pollutants are running on the high side today," she explained as she wiped the edge of her shirt over the lenses with one hand and rubbed her eyes with the other. "I usually go with contacts, much easier than these clunky things."

Finally, replacing them, she sighed. "As much as the offer might tempt me, I'll have to decline. Something tells me your friends out there wouldn't appreciate it much." She heard the faintest chuckle from someone outside the door and her mouth crinkled into a frown. She _hated_ being watched, especially when she couldn't see the person who was doing the watching. Ah, well. "I actually meant trading information. This whole interviewing business must be getting tiresome for you."

She had to stop there. It felt perfectly obvious, to her, at least, that she was doing this out of pity. Her main goal in calling the supervisor last night was to request that Crane be let out of his restraints for two measly hours so that they could talk face-to-face. At this point Maria wasn't frightened of him anymore (anymore? who said she'd been frightened at all?), and seeing a person locked up like that made her sick (even if he was insane). Since Jessica had turned down the idea, she was forced to turn to the next best alternative. This whole interview was feeling too much like an interrogation, and by turning the tables a bit she could get rid of that feeling.

But if _he_ saw all of that, he might lose his temper. An image of the bodies found two weeks ago flashed into her head. Jonathan Crane losing his temper would most certainly not be a good experience.

With a sigh, Maria finished what she'd been saying. "For every question I ask you, you get one for me. Of course, it can't be anything ridiculous, like name, address, phone number, the names of people I love and care about..." She folded her hands in her lap and prayed that he wouldn't get angry. "Well?"

"Yes," he said slowly, considering a spot on the floor, "Gotham does seem to be having trouble with… airborne… pollutants… lately." Then he looked up at her with a wry, sarcastic grin. "Pity," he said. "I was so hoping you would accept. I really had my heart set on it." His grin faded into a look of slight concentration as he went over her offer, his eyes travelling along the wall of the enclosure. "Trading information?" he mused. "Swapping story for story, in a fashion similar to… trading marbles as children." His eyes flicked back to her. "However, seeing as I seem to have _lost_ my marbles, that wouldn't really be a fair trade for you, now would it?"

At the next part of her statement, Crane smiled and laughed oddly. "See, you just took half the fun out of it, right there," he said, shaking his head. "Not allowed to ask about specific locations or the names of loved ones… what _is_ your friendly neighbourhood psychopath to do?" He grinned, sucking in air through his teeth, and then let it out as a sigh. "Well, since you put it out there so plainly, I feel I am obliged to play by your rules." He looked up at her. "So, since I gave the first bit of information, I get to ask you something."

He turned his face upwards, squinting his eyes and pursing his lips in a show of thought. If anything, it might amuse her to see him being so openly theatrical. "Uhm…" he considered what to request, taking into consideration that she was not going to give anything that really interested him. "How about this…" He looked at her. "How about we play a little game first. It's one of mine. I… try to guess something about you, and… if I'm right," he inclined his head one way, "you move your chair a little closer to mine. But if I'm wrong," he inclined his head the other way, "you back up your chair towards the wall.

Seeing as you're against the wall now, the game is a little slanted… If my first guess is incorrect, then you stay where you are and you get to go back to your method. But if my first guess is correct…" He shrugged, raising his eyebrows, "you move forwards. And then it works from there. But the catch is…" He cocked his head sharply, looking at her, then his eyes strayed as he opened his mouth, considering his words. "If you get all the way over here… you have to let me out of my straightjacket." He grinned at her. "But don't worry. I'm not going to attack you when you do."

It was a game that was not going to sit well with anyone - not Jessica, not the security guards, and certainly not the interviewer, but he thought a slim, crazy chance was better than no chance at all.

Maria couldn't help but smile crookedly. She didn't care what he said to the contrary; with all the fake theatrics, joke-cracking, and smile, Crane was abnormally happy today.

His next sentence told her why.

There were so many things wrong with his little idea of a game she didn't know where to start. For one, she didn't _want_ to move out of the corner (which, obviously, he knew). For two, she most certainly didn't want him out of that straightjacket on his own terms, no matter what he said. For three, the _guards_ most certainly didn't want him out of that straightjacket, on anybody's terms.

She supposed that, if worst came to worst, she could always lie. After all, it would only take a few more days to get all the information and conversation she needed out of this man, and then she'd never see him again. She heaved a mental sigh and made her decision.

"Take care, Dr. Crane, that savors strongly of desperation," she quipped, nearly drawing a quote from one of her favorite movies. She caught herself and moved on. "As I'm a woman who tends towards generosity, I'll go along with your game. I'll assume the...observations aren't going to be trite ones, say, 'I do believe your hair is auburn'."

"Desperation," he repeated. "Well, when you're stuck in a place like this for so long…" his eyes scaled the walls and ceiling, "…it kind-of grows on you…" His last few words came out in a kind of wistful tone. Then he looked back at her. "Though you get used to it after a while… You've met my friends, the guards… they keep me… good enough company." He smirked. "For what it's worth to someone who has a home to go to after working hours are over…"

He chuckled at her last statement. "Oh, no," he said, smiling at her, "no questions like that. No. And besides, I would put it at more of a darkly burnt umber, maybe even a deep pumpkin rouge." He considered her for a moment. "All right, _Chloe_," he said, thinking of what to ask her. He could say 'your name isn't really Chloe', but that would be too simple. She might drop out of the game if he used that one… he was almost certain she had always known that he did not believe the false name she had given him when he asked.

"Let's see," he said, staring at her. "You are fascinated by fear and what it can do to the human psyche because… you wish to conquer it, and you hope that… by becoming as knowledgeable as you can about every facet of it…" He paused here, watching her expression. "…You can overcome it completely."

Waiting for his first observation, Maria surreptitiously glanced at a lock of her hair that had fallen free from the ponytail. _Deep pumpkin rouge...?_ It made her smile. _Antique brass, more like it._ Maybe she was just being too traditional; in her book, any color could be described by the Crayola crayon sixty-four pack, thank you very much.

When the guess finally did come, it wasn't one that really surprised her. After all, what was the topic of their discussion the day before? She cocked her head to the side, though, and looked at the ceiling for a moment as if deep in consideration. "It's hardly a wish, and some of the wording is disputable..." The woman shrugged. She couldn't very well lie about that one. She'd made her feelings about fear quite clear yesterday.

She scooted her chair a fraction of an inch away from the wall, feeling like the first man on the moon must have. Safe haven behind her, unknown territory ahead..._That's one small step for a woman, one large step towards insanity. Literally._ A small part of her was angry that she was playing along, but another part felt a tiny thrill. _Great. Thrill-seeking. Maybe next I could take up cliff-diving, or gearless spelunking..._

"Next, please. Or do I have the chance to ask something of my own?" She realized she hadn't taken the recorder out of her bag. Ah, well; like she would forget any of this. Or could.

Crane watched as she moved her seat up towards him, grinning to himself. One down, only a few to go… Soon, with a little luck, he would be free of his bindings. Then he would be one step closer to his ultimate escape from this hellish place, the place that he had once been so happy in… back when he held the keys, when he called the shots, when he was the ruler of his proverbial castle. He sat back in his chair, letting his head lounge back, resting between his squared shoulders, staring down at her from his perch.

"I guess I got that right," he said, watching her intently, then, "Oh, no. Just me this time. If you get back against the wall, then you can start asking the questions. But until then…" He exhaled thoughtfully, considering the way she carried herself, almost as if she were nervous to play his game. That was good… at least she knew what she was up against. …Or did she? He was not about to let himself believe she knew everything he was capable of, because he was certain she did not. Now he just had to think of another question to get her one step closer. There was no margin for error here; one wrong guess and she would be back against the wall, and he would be stuck in his straightjacket for the rest of his miserable, psychotic life.

He was not about to let that happen.

"Jane Austen," he said, hoping to surprise her. "I recognize the quote. Pride and Prejudice, one of her more famous works… besides Emma, Mansfield Park, Sense and Sensibility, and Persuasion. – Didn't think I'd know something like that, did you?" He smirked, then looked away, concentrating instead on the small bar in the thick door of his cell that served as a window of sorts, as if nervous someone would come peering in and spoil his little game. "I used to read… back before I was locked up here." He spoke slowly and meticulously, making each word count. "I used to read… everything. And do you know what I found?" He hoped this would hit her hard; he waited, adding to the effect of the statement. "Jane Austen's books are filled with fear. Fear of rejection, fear of loss, fear of love, or the lack thereof…" He paused again, letting his words sink in. He hoped he was getting through to her; but he would go a little further… just for fun.

"Fear radiates in everything she wrote… Elizabeth's fear of not finding a suitable husband, her fear when she was falling in love with Mister Darcy… she didn't really want to do it, not until she found that he was falling in love with her as well. …Elizabeth's parents' fear that something would happen to their daughter who fell so madly in love with that ne'er-do-well… what was his name again?" His smirk widened. "And I don't even need to go into the fear in Mansfield Park… or Persuasion. I think you can figure those out, pretty much… for yourself."

He stared at her, gripping her, holding her tightly to her seat, his crystalline eyes boring into hers. "So now, for my second observation," he continued. "You like Jane Austen, and you used to have what is called, in the world of psychological medicine, a _'Jane Austen complex'_… but you now think that you have seen too much of the world to believe that every story ends in a happily ever after, and you've become far too sceptical of relationships – whether through scarring experiences or just through your own pessimism – to believe that the men you find yourself hating the most at first could really be your one true love."

He grinned at her, an awful, knowing smile. "If that were the case," he continued, walking the line, "you and I might have been meant to be."

Surprisingly, Maria found herself holding back a bubble of laughter. "I'll be honest, romances don't seem like your type of book." She paused, a surprising thought inching its way into her brain. "It's starting to seem like you're the type of person who _looks_ for fear in things." She paused to think about it. "And if you have your heart set on looking for something, it's always going to be there."

"As for the fear in Austen's books, I always thought of her characters as a bit weak. And it's easy to ignore something that _doesn't affect you_," she stated in a flat tone, putting so much emphasis on the last three words that only a deaf man wouldn't hear it. It was high time that Dr. Crane realized his little tactics weren't going to bother her. The little hints at her own insecurities were beginning to annoy her.

She reluctantly turned back to the game at hand and moved her chair another fraction of an inch. "To be clear, I'm not a sad little girl who's looking for her first real boyfriend," she told the doctor. Her voice then adopted a dramatic forlorn tone. "And I seriously doubt anything could happen between us. Our...moral standings are much too different." She pursed her lips like a disapproving aunt and crossed her legs. "Next."

He raised his eyebrows. He was not getting to her… or was he? She was making it hard to tell. Well, he would focus more on things he could pull from her person, rather than trying to pick her brain… slim pickings, from the miniscule bit about herself that he had been able to ascertain through their sparse conversations. "I see that you are not impressed by literary references," he said, nodding, "though you made one, yourself… and yes, Austen's characters do have that kind of irksome… weakness about them."

He paused. "As for looking for fear in everything around you, it's really not that hard. Sometimes, yes, you have to look for it. But sometimes it's right there… so easy to find, if only you knew what to look for." He shrugged, then continued, "For example, I can't find any sense of fear in children's books, like Goodnight Moon… or, say… pudding." He cracked a small smile here. "Nothing frightening about pudding. Do you know why?" Here he slitted his eyes at her, holding her, making her hang on for his answer. "Because these are things created as safety blankets against fear. People can do that, you know. If the child is afraid of a monster under his bed… read him Goodnight Moon. And if the woman is afraid of never finding true love…" He let his voice trail off, grinning. He did not have to finish that statement.

"No," he chuckled. "I'm not a big romantic, as you can probably tell… not one of those people who sings about roses in summertime while I slice the throats of my victims…" He shrugged here, smiling at her. "But I liked to read everything. Have you ever read a book called _A Clockwork Orange_? Or _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_? Two of my favourites." He breathed here, pausing a moment, and then added, "Also, _Silence of the Lambs_ was a personal favourite… of mine."

Here Crane almost rolled his eyes. "I didn't say you were, _Chloe_," he said, "_did_ I? Did those exact words come out of my mouth? Did I say to you…" He looked straight at her, paused, and then continued in a flat, unamused monotone, "You are a sad, lonely little girl, aren't you?" He held her gaze for a long moment, then turned his attention elsewhere as he went on. "And you're not really my type, anyways… far too…" He tilted his head from side to side, trying to think of the right adjective to describe his interviewer. Then he looked back at her. "_Autonomous_."

He watched her for a moment, then blinked, meditatively. "I'm going to go out on a limb here," he said. If he got this one wrong, then he would only have one more wrong answer before she was out of his range, and he was out of luck. "You have a dog. A large, friendly dog." He grinned. "Don't you?"

Maria's cool mask finally cracked a bit. She was so _sick_ of this. "So you're saying that everything in our society has _something_ to do with fear, whether we like it or not?" she asked, voice harsh. "In that case, there's no hope any more, is there. Too bad. Guess we should all just throw ourselves in front of cars to avoid the sheer terror of _living_."

"The patronization could stop, too. I'm not seven," she said, scrunching her nose up in a scowl. "I _know_ you didn't say that I'm a lonely kid. You could have been thinking it."

Her rant was done, but the scowl only deepened at his next guess. She moved her chair a hair closer. _Damn it._ Thinking of Maxy was a comforting thought. If she focused hard enough, she could almost feel his sort fur between her fingers and see his tan tail whipping back and forth in the air. A puff of air escaped her lips and she turned her eyes to the ceiling. "Next, please."

Crane chuckled. "Now, I didn't say that," he said. "And there are certainly better ways to die than throwing one's self into traffic. Like…" He thought about it. "Tying yourself to a firecracker." He grinned. "At least you would go out… with a bang."

He turned his head, considering her. "Now, did I say you were seven?" he asked. "And what are you now, a mind-reader?" He smirked. "If so, then why do you need to interview me? Aren't you wasting both of our precious times with this rather _trivial, old-fashioned_ technique?" He shook his head, amusing himself. At least that was good.

"Would you like to know how I guessed you had a large dog?" he asked. Even if she did not, he was going to tell her. "You have a few coarse pet hairs near the knees of your outfit. A cat's fur is different from a dog's hair; it looks different, especially under a microscope. Also, if the dog was small, you would have the fur on either your blouse, from picking up the animal, or around your ankles. But since the fur is near your knees…" He shrugged. "It stood to reason that the dog was rather… larger." He smiled at her, devilishly. "But, you say, perhaps it was a small creature, you had the animal in your lap, and that's how the hair got there." He shook his head. "If you had a creature that sheds in your lap, the fur would have a tendency to gravitate towards your… crotch area." He turned his head, watching her meditatively, that same crooked smile on his face. "Not that I'm… looking," he added, grinning at her.

He looked back at her. "Well, maybe if you move your chair a little _slower_, I'll have this straightjacket off before I'm _eighty_," he quipped sarcastically. "Not that I mind waiting. Patience is a virtue." He hoped that would not send her off the edge; she had quite a feisty side, he had discovered, which was easily set off by the most inane of his statements. Perhaps it was time for a different approach.

"Let's stop talking about fear for a moment," he said. "Let's talk about something else. Like…" He considered what to talk about. The only think they seemed to have in common was their fascination with the emotion, so finding an alternate subject for discussion would be a challenge. "I don't think you're lonely," he said. "I don't think you're afraid. But I _do_ think…" He stared at her, pursing and unpursing his lips, thinking. "You wish you could get out of Gotham. You wish your life had a little more… I don't know… _pizzazz_, in it."

Again with the patronizing. Maria took the upper road and ignored it, tilting her head off towards the door and refusing to meet his eye. Her mouth tightened into a dissatisfied line. Either her moods were completely out of whack, or he was toying with her. Must be the first.

At the dog comment, she unconsciously brushed off the hairs that were invisible to her. Instead of the explanation freaking her out, it was sort of comforting. At least he hadn't read that from the comments she'd made; if that had been the case, she would have had reason to be truly concerned. She hadn't even mentioned _liking_ animals, much less hinted that she might have one.

"Didn't know you were so eager to get me over there," she said, the edge not completely gone from her tone. "Though I shouldn't flatter myself. You just want to get out of that chair. Poor dear." She tutted like she remembered her mo...wait. Her eyes fell to the floor and focused on one filthy white tile. She didn't remember. There wasn't anything to remember, really. A hysterical laugh got caught in her throat; she cleared it firmly.

Well, now.

She rolled her eyes and took the plunge, moving forward by almost a foot to make up for the last few centimeters. "Fair enough. Even you have to admit that Gotham is a completely boring hellhole." Her back was flat against the chair and she no longer felt even the unconscious urge to lean forward, but Crane's luminous eyes still felt too close. She decided that holding his gaze was a bit uncomfortable, and took a break by watching the floor tiles.

"Oh, I don't know," he said with an odd laugh, "my little corner of Gotham can get quite interesting, at times… especially when I get... visitors." He smirked at her. "But you're making my guesses seem trivial, even… pitiful." He watched her. She had made the choice to not make eye contact with him; a smart move. He would not want to hypnotize her. He grinned. All those old rumours were coming back to him… if only even one of them were true…!

"Let me try something else," he said. "So far, I've covered your cynical nature, your pets, your desire for freedom… but those are all small and insignificant topics." He thought about it, breathing slowly, concentrating hard. If she had only given him a little subtext to work with…! But she had given him nothing. He had given her everything at their last interview, and tricks of observation would not bring her chair all the way over to his.

"Let's delve a little deeper," he went on. "Into your past." He let out a short, cynical chuckle, jerking his head slightly to one side. "Always such a tragic topic when someone is asked… either they were misunderstood, abused, ignored, or raped… those are the four most common…" He looked at her again. "Though it's been known to happen that… people have had a perfectly normal childhood." He scrutinized her in interest. Well, there certainly did not seem to be anything wrong with her, besides the fact that she was overly sceptical of the world around her and did not seem to make friends easily - or even want to.

A detachment from the societal world. That indicated a deep-seated trouble with -

"Your mother," Crane said. "You and your mother did not have a very good relationship… and that's part of the reason you've turned out… the way you are today." He tilted his head forwards, watching her intently, hoping against hope that he remembered all his studies correctly.

A tiny beep issued from the digital watch on Maria's wrist. She glanced down at it; the face said eleven o'clock sharp. As if it knew it what the watch said, her stomach growled the tiniest bit, and she placed a hand over it. She realized she'd have to head out for an hour or so to grab something to eat. Maybe she'd try that new Thai bistro a few miles away...

"Oh, not pitiful. Just a bit...boring." She shrugged as if it didn't matter anyways. "They just feel like the questions I get from my friends, not an analysis from a psychologist."

Her chair moved back a foot with almost undue enthusiasm. "Strike one," she said in a happy tone. "My m...my mom and I were on great terms." She realized that she was grinning like a little kid, and toned down the expression. Then she realized what he'd said. Those were almost fighting words. "What do you mean, 'the way I am today'?" Her eyebrows were in danger of disappearing under her sideswept bangs.

FUCK.

It was then that Crane realized that he never really swore when he spoke.

Oh, well. It was never too late to start.

FUCK.

He twitched slightly at the beep her watch made. He hated electronic things… always had. Everything was done better when you did it, yourself… not when you relied on a machine to do it for you. He stared at her watch, now hidden underneath her hand. If they just had real people stationed in casinos, they would not lose as much money to card-counters… if soldiers manned their vehicles they would not have so many blunders which resulted in the loss of technology and the money that was put into it… money that could have gone to better sciences, ones that needed it more.

What kind of wars were the world fighting nowadays? Whatever happened to good old thermonuclear atomic warfare?

"Well, Chloe, this isn't really meant to be an analysis," he told her. Then, "Nor am I trying to be your friend. I am simply trying to fulfil both of our needs by asking questions of you… we're just getting to know each other, you and I." He smirked. "Acquaintances, if you will. Not friends."

"You and your mother…" he began to repeat, but stopped himself, surprised. He cleared his throat. "You just seem like the kind of person who never really had much of a relationship… with her mother," he specified. "Which isn't that uncommon… all things considered." She was taking much larger steps backwards than forwards. That could prove disastrous. One more strike and he would be out.

"All right," he said, thinking hard and furiously. _Think, Crane. Fast, before she pulls out._ His cool façade did not crack as he stared at her, considering what to ask her next. Then he opened his mouth, paused, and then spoke slowly, considering his words carefully, "Is it that you and your mother were on great terms… or that you can't remember enough about her… to know much… either way?"

Watching Crane closely as she was, Maria noticed when he twitched. She raised her eyebrows. It seemed that something about the watch was setting him off. That was weird, to say the least. Then again, he was a bit off his rocker. Still. Interesting.

Even more interesting was the fact that she'd been watching closely enough to catch it. She diverted her eyes and a dull heat rose in her cheeks. A blush? Since when did Maria Goodhart _blush_?

After nearly a minute, she looked back up and slid her chair forward to its previous position without a word. Her jaw tightened almost against her will. The bad memories were piling up, pounding at the back of her brain like jackhammers now, and she had to stare hard at Crane's face to try to forget about them. "Next."

Crane raised his eyebrows and his lips parted slightly in surprise. She was moving forwards again. Maybe this would not be as hard as he thought, at first… He caught himself and instantly changed his expression to one of impassive interest. If she knew he was getting so interested in her, she might try to use that against him… like bait. He did not like to be mockingly enticed, but he could never resist following the bait and getting caught up in something hook, line, and sinker.

And now he was floundering for another question to ask her.

Funny how he always ended up comparing himself to a fish.

He watched her, and saw the strangest thing: he was almost certain he saw her blushing. What? That was impossible; at least, she did not seem like the blushing type. He would have put money on that. Apparently, he would have lost that bet… or maybe it was just an illusion. Maybe he truly was losing his mind. Maybe now he was starting to see things.

But now she was staring at him, her expression set, no longer cynical and relaxed. All this time, she had been trying to avoid his gaze, making acerbic comments about his questions and comments, but this time, she had moved forward with barely a word. How odd. Perhaps he had struck a chord there. "Your mother died… when you were very young," he said, hoping to get lucky. There were so many possibilities for a case like this… the mother had died, or run away, or the child had been sent away… it was almost impossible to isolate the case. Even for Crane, it was only guesswork.

Her teeth were going to break from being pushed together so hard.

By now, Maria was beyond noticing Crane's very noteworthy facial expressions. She was attempting to distract herself by trying to pin down exactly the color of his eyes (Crayola wasn't getting her very far; Inch Worm was the closest she'd decided on), but a dull throb in the back of her skull told her that a bad headache was coming on. She said nothing again (it seemed this was becoming a habit) and moved forward.

She didn't like where this train of thought was going. She didn't like it at all. The novelist had been to a shrink once before, a man in his mid-fifties who liked to play God. He'd asked her questions quite similar to the ones she faced now, and the result hadn't been pretty. Suffice it to say, that was the last trip she'd ever taken to the man.

And now, in this stupid room, she was having to face the same questions. She'd never tell him to stop, though. That would be admitting a weakness, and he seemed the type prone to prod at a weak spot. So she kept her mouth shut and her jaw clenched.

Just a few more correct guesses, and he would be free. But, despite that, Crane was not thinking about freedom. He was completely enraptured by this mysterious author, with her enigmatic ways, her hidden past, her self-regulating nature… She said nothing, but there was something in her silence that Crane detected… resentment? Hatred, towards him, towards the system, towards herself, for putting herself in this situation? His brow creased slightly as he considered her; she seemed to be studying him right back. He had never had anyone study him like that before, almost like an artist… what _was_ she thinking?

He bit his lip, thinking. All the sarcastic grins, the bitter laughter, the nonchalant cynicism had vanished, replaced with what he had once been: intelligent, determined, cautious and reckless, all at the same time. He inhaled heavily, then let it out quickly, turning his head, considering her. What in the world could he possibly ask her next?

Finally, he leaned a slender shoulder against the back of the chair and bent slightly forwards, towards her. "All right," he said, his voice low, breathy… nervous. He swallowed, trying to find the right way to word his next guess. "You don't like to talk about your mother's death," he said slowly. "You prefer to leave her memory in tranquillity… and silence."

The uncomfortable (for her, at least) silence had to stop. "Now that's hardly a guess," she protested, eyes narrowing. Her arms crossed over her chest and a finger tapped against her forearm. "More of an observation, and not too hard to figure out, if you're half the doctor I thought you were." Manners were, apparently, a thing of the past now. Which was odd, since Maria only let her polite face drop around friends.

And, of _course_, she and Dr. Crane were no friends.

Maybe half of her worry was because she kept getting closer and closer, and she found she couldn't lie about these things. She had always relied quite a lot on honesty (didn't get her very far in Gotham, to say the least), but this was ridiculous. The guards outside the door were not going to let Crane out of his straightjacket, no matter how much he might argue about it. And she didn't want to have to explain that.

Crane was taken aback. He had been doing so well, up until this point. Then she had decided to fight back. That hypnotic power he was rumoured to have would have been a very useful tool, right about now. Too bad it was only a rumour… and hypnotism was a thing that only fools and magicians believed in. That was, of course, not counting the possibility that all magicians were fools. Which was something Crane did not doubt.

"Chloe," he said, returning to his slippery, slightly mad smile, "I am _twice_ the doctor you think I am." Maybe that would psyche her out. Maybe it would not. Either way, he had to buy himself some time… now that the two of them were not locked, as if with some kind of static electricity, or under some kind of hypnotism (there it was again!), he could not afford to lose her. He was so close… he clenched his fists inside the straightjacket, his breathing becoming slightly sharper as he watched her, inclining his head towards her a bit, staring at her out of sinister, translucent blue eyes.

"Chloe isn't your real name," he said. "I'm no fool. No attractive, vulnerable young woman would give her name so easily to someone like me… a _psychopath_." He shook his head, looking slightly fanatical. "But that's not my guess… that would be too easy, that would almost be… cheating, like my last guess." He stopped shaking his head and sat perfectly still, then began to rock back and forth slightly, very slowly, watching her, his shoulders hunching and relaxing a bit with each motion, almost meditative, in a way.

"No, my next guess is…" He paused, considering his question. She was getting peeved with his game, it was obvious. One wrong move and she might skip out entirely. He took a breath, hesitated, his mouth hanging open wordlessly, then said, "Your father never wanted to talk about your mother after her death… which hurt you, because… you wanted to know more about her." He swallowed hard. Hopefully he was getting close… hopefully she could not see him starting to sweat. He was under the gun. To her, this was a journey of self-discovery. But to him, this was a journey that led to his vindication… and revenge.

"That's enough."

Maria stood with an unnatural, jerky movement. Her eyes were still narrowed and her complexion had turned a sick white shade. "This may be a game to you, but it's my life we're talking about," she said, almost spitting with anger. "I'm going out to grab some lunch. And _if_ I come back" (she stressed the word) "we go back to the interviewing."

She turned and snagged her purse with a finger, turning for one final look at the person who'd almost touched her past. Then she stomped out the door with all the dignity of a child having a tantrum.

Outside in her car, she leaned against the dashboard (careful not to touch the horn) in defeat. She was so _tired_. If her apartment was closer, she'd go back to pay Max a visit. She couldn't believe herself. She had let some insane convict get _that close_ to her past, so close she could feel it breathing down the back of her neck. Not to mention, she'd let him come close to her dad. A shudder ran through her and she sat back in her seat, wiping her eyes (stupid allergies).

With a sigh, she turned the key in the ignition. Time for some chow. The new Thai place down the road would work just fine.

Crane looked up, eyes wide, mouth hanging slightly open in shock. "What - you're leaving?" he asked. "You can't leave… I was winning - !" But it was too late. She had already exited his cell. "You can't leave!" he shouted after her. He struggled with his bindings, thrashing violently, trying desperately to get free of the straightjacket that had him belted, helpless, in place. "FUCK!" he exclaimed, fighting the thick terrycloth, trying to tear at it with every available tool he had; hands, feet, teeth. He turned his head sharply, snatching at the material and trying to tear it loose with his teeth. He screamed in frustration, pushing against the sides of the flannel cocoon with his elbows, twisting at the waist, trying to loosen the belts that held him fast.

"JESSICA!" he screamed. He started slamming his shoulder against the back of the chair, trying in vain to get the belts to relent, even the slightest bit. "_JESSICA_!" Jessica came running into the room, frantic, flanked by two surprised-looking Arkham security guards. Crane stopped flailing and held still, glaring at the three of them, his hair falling in his almost bloodshot eyes, his mouth hanging open, panting. An exaggeration by one of the guards later telling the story had him "foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog", but he was doing nothing of the sort - at the moment.

"Doctor Crane, I heard you screaming! Is something the matter?!" Jessica seemed truly concerned for him. He stared at her, breathing heavily, his eerie, unblinking eyes never leaving her face.

"Jessica," he panted, his voice low, almost threatening. "I can't take this anymore. I just can't."

"What are you _talking_ about?" Jessica asked, narrowing her eyes. Crane's eyes flicked to the two security guards. Jessica hesitated, then turned to the guards. "Shoo!" she started sweeping them away like small, nosy children. "Go on, shoo! This doesn't concern you." The security guards frowned, then filed out of the room. Jessica closed the door behind them and turned once again to Crane.

"Jessica." His eyes bore into her, freezing her to her spot on the floor. He had always had the ability to mesmerize his second-in-command with that stare. That was one of the reasons he had hired her… if she disagreed with him, he would turn, remove his glasses, and stare deep into her eyes… and suddenly, she would have a revelation. But he knew it would take more than a spellbinding stare to get her to do this particular task. "You know I'm not dangerous," he said, coaxing her, talking slowly in a tone of convincing cajoling, making every word count. "You know I'm just a good guy… that got caught in the wrong place… at the wrong time."

Jessica frowned. "If you want me to get you out of that straightjacket, Dr. Crane…"

"Oh, no, no, that's not what I want at all," Crane said, speaking in a tone one might use with a child who misinterpreted something that was said to them, "I couldn't ask you to do that. That would be asking too much… But, there is something I would like you to do for me…" He leaned forward in his chair, looking more crazed than ever before, the mad, crooked smile spreading across his face. "Come here… a little closer…" She moved closer to him, trusting him. "Just a little closer, Jessica. That's it."

Finally she stood right before him. "I'm just a little uncomfortable in the jacket," he said, in barely above a whisper. "Could you maybe… loosen it, just a bit? Just around the shoulders…" Jessica started to reach out a hand, then stopped.

"I don't think this is a good idea, Dr. Crane," she said. "I mean, I could get into a lot of trouble for this."

"Just for loosening it a little? Jessica." He tilted his head, giving her a mock scolding look. "Nobody will know. I won't tell if you won't tell." He smiled at her, trying his hardest to make it look sincere. "Come on, Jessica. Just a little looser… just around the shoulders."

She sighed, looked at him again, and then reached out and began to lightly loosen the straps of the straightjacket at his shoulders. He smiled, watching her. "Yes, Jessica… that feels so much better," he said, smiling. "SO much better."

When she had finished, she stepped back to admire her work, then started for the door again. "Oh, Jessica, wait," Crane called after her. Jessica stopped and turned back to him. "Come back," he enticed her. She hesitated, then started back towards him.

"I have to get back to my job, Doctor," she said. "They're going to wonder where I am."

"I know that, this won't take but a moment," Crane assured her. "Come on. Come here. Just a little closer." Jessica approached him, and stood before him, patiently. He lowered his head, inclining it slightly to one side, and looked up at her. "Down here," he said quietly. "Come on, I need to tell you something. Something secret. Nobody can know it but you, so I have to whisper…" She leaned in close to him, raising her eyebrows, waiting. He leaned near to her face. "Jessica…" he whispered. She nodded, waiting for the secret.

"…_I lied_."

Before Jessica had time to react, Crane reared back and rammed his own forehead into hers, knocking her out cold on the floor of his cell. He stared down at her for a moment, triumphant, then started to wrestle his shoulders out of the straightjacket, slipping first one arm, and then the other, out of the jacket, and finally pulling his legs out of the uncomfortable sack. He stood, stretched his arms, and inhaled deep, his first breath of freedom.

He tossed the straightjacket down onto the cell floor next to Jessica, lifted her ring of keys, and let himself out of the cell, remembering to lock the door behind him. He wanted to laugh; he wanted to scream, but he knew that portraying any kind of emotion would give him away. He found his way to the entrance of Arkham, where Jessica's computer station sat abandoned. He moved around to the computer chair and sat down, pulling up the file of registered visitors to Arkham. He recognized only a few of the names - relatives of patients he, himself had overseen at one point - but stopped when he saw one.

"Hello," he grinned. "_Maria Goodhart_."

He got up from the computer chair and exited Arkham asylum, undetected by the security guards or the security cameras, leaving no indication of his ever being there but the computer chair idly spinning in circles.

Jonathan Crane was free.


	4. Chapter Three

The Thai place was good.

Bangkok Bistro was what it went by. The alliteration had made Maria smile a bit, before she walked in. Her footing was still a bit shaky from what had happened in Arkham, so she slipped into a bar seat quickly and rested her head in her hands.

Thus, it took her a little while to notice two pale, light blue eyes staring at her from behind the counter.

She jerked her head back, heart beating like a rabbit's, until she saw the blonde hair. So it _wasn't_...but of course it wouldn't be. He was locked up, as he well should be, back at the asylum. She shook the haze from her head and tried at a smile, but the stranger spoke before her.

"Drink?"

She nodded, not bothering to name what she wanted. He took this with practiced ease, slipping a mug under one of the taps and squeezing it until some amber liquid spilled out. Then he spoke again. "Hard day, huh? Or morning, really." Maria looked at him sharply, but there was a hint of a joke in his eyes, so she relaxed and nodded. He offered a sympathetic smile before plunking the drink down in front of her, trotting around the bar, and seating himself comfortably beside her.

"You usually this friendly to total strangers?" she asked with a ghost of a grin. He seemed to take it as encouragement, and a few minutes later she had a steaming plate of noodles in front of her and they had introduced themselves. His name was Aidan Montgomery.

"This might be a completely off-the-wall guess, but did you visit Arkham Asylum this morning?" he asked. It startled Maria, who'd been sipping at whatever beer he'd given her. He noticed the surprised look and laughed. "We get quite a few Arkham visitors in here, it being just down the street and all. And they all have that...that look in their eye," he explained, trailing off and twirling his fingers about in midair. She had to laugh at his way of speaking; the lilt to his voice and complete lack of sophistication was a relief from the stiff conversations she'd shared with Crane.

"Yeah. I was doing an interview with Jonathan Crane, the old supervisor of the place," she said. Noticing his raised eyebrows, she grinned. "I'm working on a collection of studies on the mentally disturbed."

That made Aidan laugh outright. "Oh, yeah, disturbed is right. I've seen pictures and vids of that guy on the internet, with the whole...y'know, thing a few weeks back. He's lost it." They sat in comfortable silence, then Aidan smacked the bar. "I'd love to stay and chat, but I see my manager giving me the stink eye, and I really don't want to lose this job." She smiled at him and nodded, and he met her eye with a considering look. "But seriously, if you want to talk or get together or something, call me."

After writing his number and slipping away, Maria sat in content silence for a few minutes. It was so _nice_ to get back into the real world. Too bad it couldn't last long. With a glance at her watch, she found that she'd spent over an hour chatting with Aidan. Time to get back to Arkham.

He was sure he was not the only person in Gotham with his motives.

Since the demise of Ra's Al Ghul, it had been increasingly difficult to find people who shared his common drive to implement his train of thought into, but he was sure that, in the weeks since his own incarceration, there had to have been at least one person who would rise to challenge the Batman. It was a pitiful premise for a person, to be there simply to irk the troublesome do-gooders of Gotham's rotting society, but it was Crane's only hope at the moment.

The best place to look for people like that, of course, would be Arkham Asylum. But since he had not been removed from the maximum security cell to make room for someone even crazier, someone even more "evil", as seen through the slanted view of the general public, who had no consideration for science, he assumed that the person - or persons, if he was lucky - had not yet attracted the public eye, and had therefore not yet been apprehended.

Perhaps they just needed a hand.

Of course, the best place to find the shadiest people - even people with weak minds, like Carmine Falcone - was in the back slums and drug walks of Gotham city. Even weak minds like Carmine Falcone had potential, if they had money. Money always helped.

Crane combed his overgrown bangs over his eyes, hiding them from the curious general public, and walked, hunched, down the street, making his way towards downtown Gotham. If he could find a vehicle with the key inside, he would take it, but thus far, every car he had come across had been locked, with a secure alarm system and no keys. Crane hated modern cars… modern cars and their modern alarm systems, and then there were those atrocities that required no keys and parked themselves… who the hell thought up a car that would park itself? As if today's youth weren't uneducated and lazy enough.

He wore his crisp business suit, and carried his briefcase… with the help of Jessica's keys, he had been able to retrieve them from the holding room, and was happy to find that Jessica had not forgotten about him: his suit had been dry-cleaned and pressed, and was waiting for him, neatly folded up on top of his briefcase, out of which the mask was not missing. Jessica had made sure that those goons that called themselves security guards did not compromise the honour of Crane's most prized possession.

Ah, Jessica. Maybe she would starve to death before she woke up. Then her death would be painless.

He looked up as the sky began to darken and a rumble of thunder reached his ears. This was the last thing he needed. He hated the rain. Rain always made him want to burn something… and arson was a crime, as he had regretfully learned. Of course, he had always been able to push the blame off on someone else. Crane grinned at the thought. He loved arson. Watching something burning into a charred oblivion, and then finally blowing away as nothing but a pile of ashes reminded him of human mortality, and how little so many people knew of their own transience. It made him feel better about himself.

The rain started as a light drizzle, but soon began getting harder and harder, until it was a hefty downpour. Crane flinched, holding his briefcase over his head, but it was no use. He was getting soaked. Right and left, hookers, drug dealers and hobos were running for cover in bars or under overhangings. Crane finally found himself a dry spot in the corner of some dark alley, where he set down his briefcase, wrung out the water from his sleeves, and then shook some of it from his hair. Water was a miserable substance, after all. It made one sick. Crane knew of people who had died from pneumonia; such a pathetic way to die. Of course, Crane also knew of people who had died of "pneumonia"… but that was a different story.

He muttered to himself, cursing the weather, and opened his briefcase, making sure nothing in it had gotten harmed by the rain. Thankfully everything inside it was still intact, and none of it had gotten wet. He sighed in relief as he closed the case, then stopped short when he heard something. He paused, listening. He was not exactly sure of what the sound had been, but it sounded distinctly… human.

He inclined his head forward, listening for the sound to repeat itself. A long moment passed. Nothing but silence. Crane shook his head. "I must be going crazy," he reasoned. Then he heard it again, definitely this time. He turned, looking around for the source of the noise, and heard a low voice. It was impossible to tell what the voice was saying, but Crane listened intently, hoping to at least catch the gist of it. All he managed to catch were the last few words, spoken in a strange, nasal, lilting voice:

"…And get rid of the Batman, once and for all."

Crane grinned. He had allies.

For the first time in her memory, Maria wasn't shaking because she was cold.

She sat on her lazy chair in her apartment, one hand wrapped around her middle in a deathgrip and the other gripping her home phone with equal strength. It was a panic attack, she kept telling herself. Just a silly panic attack, like she had when she was a kid, and it would be gone in just a little while. _Then_ she could call Aidan.

She shot a look at a mirror on the opposite side of the room above her table. Her eyes were bloodshot and her pupils were completely dilated. Her hair, which she'd taken out of its ponytail hours ago, hadn't been combed and stuck up in curious angles from her head. Combined with her pale complexion, she looked like a ghost. The thought sent another army of shivers down her spine, and she took in a shaky breath. _Breathe. Just breathe, and don't think about anything else. Especially not Cra..._

_DAMN IT._

The minute she'd walked into Arkham, she'd known something was wrong. Jessica wasn't at the front counter. She'd paged a few guards and headed down to the regular room, only to find the woman lying on the ground, unconscious.

The chair was empty, which had set off Maria's panic attacks.

She settled into a comfortable position and set down the phone, only for a minute, to rest her open palms on her knees. With a straight back, she took in three deep, cleansing breaths and closed her eyes. "Calm down. Just calm down. You can do something about this once you're calm. Nothing's going to happen, anyways; you never gave him your name." The words worked; her heartbeat slowed and her fingers stopped twitching. She sat for a few minutes, and finally decided not to call Aidan. Instead, she comforted Max, who'd never seen his owner act this way, and put on her shoes.

It was raining outside, one of the downcast, tired drizzles that Gotham was famous for. The rain was actually soothing as it followed Maria's slow footsteps down the narrow sidewalks. As she'd hoped, the streets had been cleared of its usual huddled gangs of shady characters by the rain. The smart criminals would be inside by now. Really, the smart _people_ would be inside by now. But the rain gave Maria a relatively safe environment to think about what she was going to do.

In the best situation possible, Batman would catch up to Crane before he got very far. In the worst situation possible, Crane would somehow find out Maria's true name and come after her.

But there were two major problems with this second situation. First, there was no way he _could_ find out her true identity. She hadn't even given him a clue. Second, he had no motivation to seek her out. As he'd hinted at, his true tormentors had been the security guards at the place.

She took in what could have been the hundredth huge breath of that night, and sighed heavily, almost feeling the stress seep out of her bones. She was safe.

Realizing that she'd reached the end of her street, she turned around. Time for a good night's sleep.

Jack Napier had been handsome, once. He had had the start of a family, once. He had been one of the good guys, once.

Jack Napier had been sane… once.

His face had been mangled in the collapse of his house. He had had a wife, back then, and he had loved her desperately. He would have done anything for her… include take up business in the shadier parts of Gotham for a little spare change to help support her in her pregnancy. In fact, that was what he had been doing just before he came home to find his house - and his world - collapsing around him. The very people who had slapped him on the back, called him "friend", and slipped him bills under the table were the murderers who had demolished his house - with his pregnant wife still inside.

It had been at that moment that Jack had snapped. He had sworn that he would one day take over the shady industry that he had become an unwilling part of and slowly, painfully destroy every one of the people who had killed his wife and unborn child, metaphorically, at first, until they were nothing but pitiful, writhing worms… and then literally. He still had not decided how he would do that… death by arson sounded good. Severance of body parts and a slow, bleeding death sounded just as enticing. Either way, he was determined to get his retribution.

So much for "once".

Napier watched as two of his goons hurried down the alley and out of sight, pulling a knife from the inside of his jacket sleeve and lifting it to his lips, like a stick of candy. He stared after them, making sure they were really gone, running the tip of his tongue distractedly over the cold metal of the small weapon, letting it rest on his painted lips. It was a nervous habit that he sometimes did without even realizing it, but it made him feel calm. It was better than a stress ball, because what happened when you squeezed the fuck out of a stress ball? It broke. Then it would have to be replaced, and the new one was never quite as satisfying as the last.

Jack Napier liked his knives.

Knives did not judge like people did.

Since his last hiding-place had been uncovered by a young, brash freelance photographer that he had, regrettably (snicker), had to slit the throat of because she was getting far too uppity for his tastes, he had been forced to relocate. He had left her body in that alleyway, so that her parents could find her, if they wanted. It would be a pity if her body were never found (snicker snicker). He was sure she had lots of acquaintances that would be very sad if they never saw their friend again.

He almost felt sorry for the girl. (Snicker snicker snicker).

But now he was faced with the dilemma of finding a new, just as inconspicuous hiding-place, where he could sit and stew, thinking up large-scale, maniacal plans for taking Gotham by storm. First would have to be the elimination of the Batman, someone he had never actually seen, but had heard whispered rumours about when he was working for the thugs who had killed his wife. That was the easy part.

The hard part… he knew nothing about the advanced crime system in lower Gotham.

Inexperience could be a real bitch.

Maria was standing a light pole in the inner, more grungy parts of Gotham, and she was gazing happily at the little ring on her right-hand finger.

It was almost shocking how quickly things worked out with Aidan. He'd gotten her the ring on their second date. They'd spent almost every night together for the last week, doing what young adults typically did when they had nothing better to do. Tonight, they were scheduled to see the most recent crappy comedy movie in one of the smaller theater joints he knew of.

In fact, she had been so wrapped up in her first real relationship that she'd almost completely forgotten about Jonathan Crane.

Almost.

Along with her new life as a social butterfly came a recurring nightmare. It was just of two huge, luminous crystal eyes. There was never any voice that accompanied them but, for some reason, she often woke up crying from it. She was no longer seeing dark-haired, slim individuals around every corner, though, and that was certainly an improvement.

She turned her thoughts away from this, watching a few shady fellows heading down an alley near her. She wrapped her waist-length overcoat around her more tightly as protection against the autumn wind. That was one thing she liked about Aidan, he didn't give a shit how she dressed. With a sigh, she wondered exactly how long it would take him to show up.

Ah, well. Nothing wrong with waiting for a good thing.

Start small. That was the advice he had been given. Start small, and work up from there. Don't bite off more than you can chew. Formulate your plan before putting it into action. Zero in on your target before you start going for their family.

Don't bother trying to find Batman. He will find you.

And for god's sakes, was the makeup _really_ necessary?

At this, Napier had looked over at his consultant, a patient kind of twist working its way up one corner of his lopsided mouth. "Yes," he had answered slowly. "I believe it is." His words seemed to slither together in a strange, nasal way that made it sound like he had saliva under his tongue; his speech had a kind of amused bite to it, as if he enjoyed his job, perhaps a little too much.

Crane wondered if he had always sounded that way.

Jack Napier was an odd one, indeed: he wore a suit that looked like it would be more in place in a _Cirque de Freak_; a dirty purple trench coat over pressed purple pants, looped with crossed suspenders over his sturdy shoulders, a green vest covering an off-blue shirt, which he wore with the sleeves carefully rolled up to the elbow, revealing strong, tan forearms. His hair was dirty, ungroomed, unattended, but for the dye that he had put in it a while ago, dying what Crane guessed had once been honey brown to a kind of dull green; some of the original colour was beginning to show through, but it was hard to tell, because his hair was so abysmally groomed. He was beginning to bald in the front, on one side, but on the other side, overgrown bangs fell into his eyes, which were painted so deep a green that they looked black. His face was painted like a macabre clown, the kind that only appeared in children's nightmares, with a white base that was beginning to peel and a deep-red grin painted crookedly across his own mouth, giving him the appearance of literally "grinning from ear to ear".

He had the body of a god, the mind of a serial killer, and the face of a nightmare.

Crane had never met anyone quite so perfect in his life.

He stood, considering Napier for a long moment, then nodded his approval. "You know what you're going to do?" he asked.

Napier grinned, tossing a wicked-bladed knife between his gloved hands. "Crash the party," he answered. "At the movie theatre… do whatever it takes to get Batman's attention."

"Except killing someone," Crane corrected, holding up a instructional finger. "No killing. You can take a hostage, but don't kill anyone. It's not necessary."

Napier lifted the knife to his mouth and began to suck on it distractedly. "You take all the fun out of life, Doc," he said in a rather more gutteral voice. "Killing people… is what I like to do." He began to pace slightly.

Crane watched him, unimpressed. The man may be street-smart, but Crane was book-smart, and he had read about people like this. In the long run, book-smarts always got you further in the world. "Don't kill anyone… _yet_," he said. At this, Napier looked up in interest, holding the knife idly to his lips, as if he had completely forgotten it was there. "_Hostages_. Hostages are far more fun."

"How d'ya figure that, huh?" Napier asked, seeming rushed. It was odd, but then again, so was he.

Crane grinned. "_Trust_ me," he said.

Surprisingly, Aidan only showed up ten minutes late. That left them almost a full minute to run the last three blocks to the theater, and left them completely breathless when they finally sat down.

"Damn it, you almost made us miss the previews!" Maria scolded, twisting the ring on her finger. It was a habit she'd recently developed. "I swear, next time you're late to a date, I'm not going to wait." The threat was, of course, an empty one that she'd given him every day since they first started dating.

Aidan calmed her down with a quick peck to the cheek. "But we still made it. And you just rhymed, three times." He gave her a huge, innocent grin before settling back in his seat. She stared for a moment then settled back for a few grumbles and mumbles as the previews began. It was the usual garbage: a few action flicks, maybe one or two cruddy comedies. Soon enough her mind was drifting.

Would anything happen? _Could_ anything happen? Were Maria still in contact with any of her family, they might have objections to Adrian's glamorous profession as a waiter. There wasn't a thing else wrong with him. He was sweet, understanding, and had a sparkling sense of humor. As if her luck wasn't good enough, he was even attractive. His blonde locks might have been a bit too long, and his clothing was, in generous terms, quite suitable for the streets of Gotham, but he was a fabulous person.

It was so odd. She had always scorned people who dithered on and on about their relationships. Now it seemed that she was in their shoes.

Napier froze as he approached the front of the movie theatre. It was huge. He was sure it was full of people. It was perfect, except for one thing: the only way to get in was to be civil.

Shit.

He cautiously approached the ticket booth, limping slightly. The college kid sitting at the desk, chewing bubble gum, stared at him like he was crazy. Little did _he_ know. Napier sidled up to the window and put one gloved hand on the counter, scanning the titles of the movies that were available to be seen.

"Um."

He did not know what else to say. He had not tried to do something this normal in… years. The last movie he had seen in theatres had been…

American Psycho.

He chuckled slightly to himself. The college kid behind the counter blew a bubble, watching him. "Um," Napier repeated, then, jerkily, looked at the college kid. "Hi," he said, the word coming off his tongue awkwardly.

The kid blew a bubble. "Are you here for the new Stephen King movie?" he asked. "The next showing isn't for half an hour."

"Uhh, no…" Napier looked back at the marquee. "The, uh, um… I'm here to see…" He pointed at the name of one of the posters on the wall. It was white and pink and sickeningly feminine. He would not have been surprised to see bunnies and flowers prancing around the border. If it was a musical, so much the better. He looked back at the kid, whose mouth was hanging slightly open, looking between Napier and the poster. There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Then Napier flashed him an awkward, lopsided smile. "I like those," he said.

Maria was almost dying of laughter within the first five minutes of the movie. Her arms were wrapped around her sides, her eyes were tearing up, and her lungs were sore.

Of course, none of this was from the actual jokes in the movie. Aidan had been narrating the whole thing, pointing out things happening in the background and doing imitations of the main characters. Finally, she put up a hand. "Okay, okay, I need a break. You want anything from the snack bar?" she asked in a faint whisper.

He tilted his head up towards the ceiling and let air whoosh out from between his lips. "I'm ashamed you don't know by now. Regular Cherry Coke with..."

"...a pack of gummi worms. Yeah, yeah," Maria finished, snagging the five dollar bill he held with a lazy hand. "Men and their misogynistic ways..." she muttered as she walked away, just loud enough for him to hear. His laughter followed her all the way out of the theater.

The kid working at the front desk seemed occupied, so Maria paused a few feet away to take a look at the movie posters pasted to the wall. She caught a glimpse of dull purple and green out of the corner of her eye, though, so she glanced at the stranger. What she saw almost made her start laughing again. It seemed a hardcore fan had heard about the new Stephen King movie. He was dressed in a ridiculous purple getup, with nasty hair dyed green and face painted to resemble what might have once been a clown. She turned away quickly, but not in time to stop a single chuckle from bubbling out of her lips.

Napier turned when he heard the ghost of a chuckle and saw an attractive young woman standing there, presumably waiting for him to clear out so she could request something of the upstart kid behind the counter. He grinned at her, pushed his oily bangs from his eyes, and stepped aside. "Well, hello, there," he said, moving slightly closer to her. He grinned at her, swinging his ratty suitcase in a way that resembled a kind of Gene Kelly suavity, though he exerted no outward appeal at all.

"Good movie?" he asked, his eyes moving upwards to the lighted panel above the door of the theatre she had just exited, which displayed the title of the movie. "I think I'm seeing that same one," he lilted, "I guess we can swap reviews… after the picture." He started to lick his lips, then stopped. "But I'm already meeting someone," he said. "If I weren't, I would definitely sit with you." His grin widened. "Maybe we can… work something out."

He sidestepped out of her way, moving to the end of the hallway, towards the lavatories. When he got to the end of the hall, he glanced over his shoulder, then, carefully, opened the double-doors at the end of the hallway. Crane stood outside, waiting patiently, his briefcase tucked under one arm, head bowed. When he heard the doors opening, he looked up, piercing Napier with that crystalline stare. "It took you long enough," he said, letting himself in past the taller man.

"Yeah, well, it wasn't easy," Napier countered, letting the doors close with a click.

Crane raised a sceptical eyebrow. "I'm sure it wasn't _that _hard," he said. "Considering you didn't even _pay_ for it. - Keep the change."

"Yeah, well, why couldn't _you _have bought the stupid ticket?" Napier grumbled.

Crane shrugged. "Because I look like a psychopath," he answered simply. Napier turned and looked at him. Crane looked up, saw him, and frowned. "_What?_" he asked. Napier shook his head and looked away. "So," Crane said, clearing his throat, "which one did you get?"

Napier showed him his ticket, and Crane took his glasses from his suit pocket, squinting at the title written on the little slip of paper. "And there's a really attractive woman in that one," Napier put in. "Maybe I can take her hostage. Maybe more than hostage. Is rape a crime?"

"A very severe one," Crane replied simply, handing the ticket back to Napier. "And I wouldn't recommend it. It looks bad on your record."

"Taking someone hostage doesn't look too good, either," Napier put in.

"No, I meant, when you're looking for people to support you in the underground crime world." Crane folded up his glasses, putting them back in his breast pocket. "They'll take one look at you, say, 'hey, you're that horny little fuck from the movie theatre incident,' and pass." He brushed off the shoulder of his suit, pulled at the bottom of the coat, then cleared his throat. "Shall we?" he said.

Maria had to work hard not to burst out laughing. No matter how creepy that guy had looked, he was clearly a bit touched in the head. And a total pervert. Something about a man dressed as a clown hitting on her really tickled her funny bone, and she told Aidan as much when she sat back down in the theater.

"He _hit_ on you?" he asked for clarity, a scowl deepening the dimples around his mouth. Maria laughed as he clenched his fists. Aidan was the sort of guy who would defend a girl's honor to the death. Well, at least until he got knocked out. A hard task for a guy who'd lived in the Gotham backstreets for most of his life.

She shook her head. "You can duke it out with him _after_ the movie," she said in a scolding tone, which drew a smile from him. "He should be in the theater pretty soon, though. Seriously, you can't miss him. Now shush; I think we're getting to a good part."

Aidan seemed confused at the explanation, which made Maria grin as she handed the snacks over. He'd get it soon enough.

Crane let the door of the theatre close behind them, scanning the seats. Napier stood behind him, frozen. He was put off by order, and there was nothing more orderly than a group of strangers sitting together in silence to watch a film. He turned and looked at Crane, but Crane seemed totally at ease. Then, seeing something, Crane started down the aisle of the theatre. "Hey!" Napier hissed, and Crane turned back to him. "We're not staying for the flick, are we? 'Cause I can't take much of this."

"Just be patient," Crane said. He put a finger lightly to his lips, indicating silence. "You just stay here until I give you the signal," he said, then turned back and started walking down the aisle again.

"Hey, hey!" Napier exclaimed quietly. "What signal? What - ?"

"You'll know when you see it," Crane assured him. He started to turn to leave again, then paused and turned back to Napier. "Oh," he added. "And you may want to hold your breath."

Napier nodded, took a deep breath, and held it. Crane stared at him flatly. Napier saw his expression, hesitated, and then let out the breath. "Right," he said, licking his lips. "Not yet. Wait for your signal. Right."

Crane raised his eyebrows at Napier, then turned back and continued down the aisle. He stopped when he got to a particular row, and slipped down the row until he found the seat he wanted, and settled himself down into it. He watched the inanities onscreen for a few moments, the leaned over to the woman sitting next to him. "Hello, Maria." he said quietly. "Don't scream. I just wanted you to know… I hadn't forgotten about you." He grinned at her, then pulled his briefcase up onto his lap. "Would you like to see my mask?" he asked. "It's not scary to normal people like you… or I," he put in, opening the case, "but _real _crazies… they can't stand it."

He opened the briefcase and pulled out the mask, showed it to her, and then took something that looked like an aerosol can from his case and stood up from his seat. "Ladies and gentlemen," he exclaimed, "this show is about to get interesting." And with that, he sprayed an arch of the toxin into the air.

Napier did not need any more signalling than that. He dropped his ratty suitcase, opened it, and pulled out a semi-automatic, which he pointed into the air and pulled the trigger. A round of bullets thundered out of the gun towards the ceiling. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he called. "I certainly hope you are enjoying your show!"

He sprinted down the aisle to Maria and grabbed her by the arm, jerking her out of her seat. "Hello, darlin'," he said. "I told you I'd make special plans to include you in my night… how you feelin'?" He cackled with laughter, holding her to his chest, a knife to her throat.

Before her date had a chance to get his feet, Crane turned to him and sprayed him with a healthy dose of toxin. "How you feeling now, tough guy?" he asked, grabbing him by the front of the shirt and pulling him out of his seat; the man had gone absolutely weightless. "I see you've met my friend Maria."

The movie had been playing for several minutes when Maria noticed Aidan turn his head and stiffen. _That didn't take long,_ she thought, not bothering to turn around. Mr. Nut must have entered the theater. She put a hand on Aidan's bicep, which was tensed and ready to hit someone, shaking her head the slightest bit with a grin. He hesitated, then relaxed. It could wait.

But apparently not long. She felt the man's presence next to her only moments later, and almost said something. What the hell did he think he was _doing_, sitting down next to her? Especially since she had a date. About to give him a piece of her mind, she froze.

"Hello, Maria."

A firework of panic exploded in her brain, and time came to a screeching halt. Aidan hadn't moved; he obviously hadn't heard Crane's soft greeting. She didn't turn her head. Her mind disconnected and plunged her back into the scene from two weeks ago. Except this time, Crane wasn't locked up. And she wasn't the one in control.

When he pulled out the canister of toxins from his suitcase, she almost caught her breath in time to avoid the toxins (quick reflexes had always been one of her strong points). Unfortunately, she caught a whiff of it, and her brain was thrown into absolute chaos. Flickering images ran in front of her eyes: her dad screaming at her mom, the bloody kitchen knife sitting at the table, the sight of the cop car taking away what was left of her family…She pressed her palms to either side of her head, shutting her eyes in an effort to block them out.

Next thing she knew, she'd been hauled to her feet with a knife to her throat. The voice of the man from earlier crooned in her ear, and she had enough sense left for a single vicious kick to her captor's legs. Definitely not the smartest move she'd ever made, considering the cold metal she felt at her throat, but fear was driving her to desperation. Her breathing had warped into quick gasps, and her heart was beating frantically. If she'd been more rational, she'd have noted that her reaction was very similar to a panic attack.

Aidan was completely helpless, the other people in the theater were all screaming and running around like lunatics, and she couldn't hear a single police siren.

Things didn't look good.

She drew in a few deep, forced breaths in an attempt to calm down. In the last twenty years of her life, she hadn't panicked this badly. It was pathetic, especially since she'd worked so hard on never losing her cool. Surprisingly, anger cleared her head enough to choke out some words. "L-leave Aidan a_lone_," she demanded, attempting furiously to work one arm out of the green-haired man's hold.

"_Aow!_" Napier exclaimed, almost twisting Maria's arm in his grip as he bent nearly double, still pinning her to his shoulder with the arm holding the knife. "_Augh_, Doc, that was my _package!_ God-_damn!_ Woman fights back!"

Crane glanced fleetingly over his shoulder at Napier in disbelief. He had potential, but he would have to grow into it. At the moment the kid (he called Napier a kid, even though they were only five years apart) was the brawn of the duo, and Crane the brains, but he was sure that when "the Joker", as Napier preferred to call himself, was set free to wreak havoc on the streets of Gotham by himself, he would be a force to contend with.

Then he turned back to Maria's male companion. "Aidan, is his name?" he asked, scrutinizing the man's face. Aidan looked terrified, and it amused Crane. He always wondered what everyone else saw when they inhaled his toxin. He knew that his own toxin-induced visions had been mildly scarring; he still remembered the oozing, demonic face of Batman as he held Crane pinned against the wall of his own toxin factory. It was a short memory; Crane had had what he had later learned was a form of "out-of-body experience" following the initial fright of the occurrence.

All the better, he decided. Any more might have caused irreversible damage to his sanity.

Crane could not suppress a grin at this thought. He loved making jokes that made himself sound even the slightest bit sane.

"Can I kill her now?" Napier asked, straightening back up and holding onto Maria with renewed vigour. Crane could not help but be impressed by his resilience. A hit like that would have had him on the floor for at least five minutes, if not more. "I've held her hostage long enough, don't you think? Time to kill her."

"Do you see Batman?" Crane asked, getting short on patience. "If you kill her, he won't come." Of course, he was not so sure about that; Batman was only human, after all. Or, so he assumed. He had never seen under the mask of the caped crusader; which was somewhat unfair, seeing as Batman knew that he, Crane, was the notorious Scarecrow. And if Batman was only human, there was no way he could know whether or not there had been any fatalities before arriving at the scene of the crime.

After all, he, Crane, had been able to take advantage of the shady superhero, once… he had been in an arson sort of mood at the time (it had been raining, so it stood to reason that he would be), so he had doused the Batman with a bit of liquor (so much more useful in Molotov cocktails than for drinking; drinking it made one stupid, though he was not above sampling it on the off occasion) and lit him on fire, laughing as he watched the hero burn.

Oh… those were the days.

Just then, both men looked up as they heard the unmistakeable sound of the rustling of large wings among the shadows of the still-dark theatre. Then a distinctive shadow flitted across the screen, where the chick flick was still playing obliviously. Napier looked surprised, but Crane grinned.

"It seems the Batman has invited himself to our little party." Crane said in a low voice, holding his toxin at his side, almost out of sight. Napier smiled, then let out a chilling laugh that echoed throughout the little theatre. Crane shuddered. He had never heard the Joker laugh like that before.

And if he never heard that laugh again for the rest of his life, it would be too soon.

Something was _moving_ up in the rafters.

Even Maria, in her state, saw the dark shape. Under influence of the toxin, she saw it as some sort of demon, red eyes and everything. It sent her blood pressure up another few notches, and she struggled harder to get free. That first kick seemed to have had some effect, why not try another one?

"Do I have to _say_ it?" she muttered, gritting her teeth as her feet flailed a second time. "Get the _fuck_ off!" A glance at Aidan told her that he was having much more trouble with the toxins than she was. She wondered about that. Was it because she'd trained herself so severely that fear didn't exist?

Well, who cared. Maybe she could use it to get out of this situation.

"Poor Dr. Crane, so desperate for attention that he attacks a theater." From what she remembered, the man didn't like being mocked. It was a sad attempt, but maybe it would work. Deep breath, deep breath. "So much for being a great scientist. And you have to rely on stupid thugs for the hard work, too?"

"_AOW!_" The machine gun fired several loud bullets at the ceiling as Napier reacted again, this time his spasm setting off his trigger finger. "Jesus _Christ_, Doc! Can I slit her throat _now_?! I'm gonna be a woman by the time I leave this place!"

"Well, then, get out of the way!" Crane snapped. "She's going to kick you, so don't leave yourself open for attack!" He looked up into the rafters again. There was no doubt in his mind now; Batman had definitely decided to pay them a little visit. How _considerate_ of him.

Napier bit his lip and winced, squeezing one eye closed in a strange, contorted face of enduring pain. "Yeah, well, why don't you take the woman an' I'll take the guy next time? Guys don't hit other guys in the nuts."

Crane turned to look at Maria, a fistful of Aidan's shirt still gripped tightly in one hand. "You know _nothing_ of greatness," he said. "I _am_ great. And nothing - nothing - will change that. Not even associating with fools like him." He indicated Napier, who looked up in surprise. "If someone else wants to send a big, brash message, that's their initiative." Crane went on. "I do only what it takes to get the job done." The light from the movie screen reflected eerily in his translucid eyes. "Anything more would be flashy and… juvenile."

"First you call me stupid, then you call me flashy and juvenile?" Napier glared at him. "I thought we were s'posed to be in on this together! You fuckin' hypocrite - if it weren't for me, you'd probably have ended up as some thug's punching bag or sex doll!"

"Don't fight with me!" Crane exclaimed. "This is neither the time, nor the place! Use some common sense! Think with your _other_ head, Napier! The one up here!" He pointed to his own temple, as if speaking to a child.

"I told you not to call me that!" Napier pointed his gun at Crane now. "That's not my name, not anymore!"

Crane turned away from Maria's male friend and looked at Napier, fuming. He could have strangled him. This was why he preferred to work alone, always. _Always._ Jessica had been the only exception; but even she had been willing to do just about anything he asked of her, so she hardly counted. He turned back to continue harassing 'Aidan', but, when he turned, he found that the man was no longer there. Instead, he was greeted by the sight of a muscular, armoured chest. _Fuck._

He looked up into the mask of the caped crusader, who was staring down at him with that strong-jawed, glaring way that he had. Crane lifted his aerosol can and started to spray it in Batman's face, but with one swift motion, Batman swiped it out of his hand. It flew across two rows of seats and rolled down the aisle of the theatre, spraying all the way down. Crane glanced back at it, then back at Batman, who grabbed him by the front of his suit and lifted him so that his feet left the ground entirely. "Doctor Crane. I should have known. I thought I locked you up for good," Batman growled in that deep, gravely voice of his.

Crane chuckled fretfully. "You did," he replied. "But I'm smarter than you… and every guard in Arkham Asylum… put together." He grinned at Batman, morbidly amused. "You can't lock me up in my own prison and expect me to stand for it," he said.

"No," Batman countered, "but I could always kill you. Then that would solve both of our problems."

"No, you couldn't." Batman looked up and saw Napier standing there, holding the machine gun in one hand and a knife to Maria's throat in the other. "Unless you want the girl to die." He chuckled, running his tongue along his crooked lips. "So," he said, once again in what seemed to be high spirits, "we meet at last… Batman."

FUCKDAMNSHITHELL.

Well, she'd give _one_ thing to the man (Napier, Crane had called him); he had a hell of a lot of endurance.

Maria gave a mental cheer when Batman finally decided to make an appearance, but the cheer turned into an exasperated scream of at Napier's next words. Now _she_ was the liability. If the damn guy would just let go when any normal human male would...

The thought was blown straight out of her head when a jerky movement on the floor caught her eye. Aidan.

It seemed he'd finally recovered a bit. He was keeping low to the ground, out of sight of the two criminals whose attentions were completely focused on Batman. Maria's heart gave a stutter when she saw what he was reaching for: her handbag.

She distinctly remembered telling him one of their first few dates that she always kept a tiny bottle of pepper spray in with her things. You could never be too careful when it came to the back streets of Gotham. It seemed that he'd remembered this, and her guess was confirmed a few seconds later when his hand groped in the bag for a minute and drew out a tiny black spray bottle.

What was he planning on doing with it, though? He couldn't very well run over to her and get Napier in the face; she was sure the lunatic would notice in time to fire a few rounds. Machine gun bullets at that short of a range wouldn't exactly be beneficial to Aidan's health. Even tossing the can to her was a bad idea. Again, Napier's reaction time couldn't be _that_ bad. But then Aidan started crawling towards her, going slowly and carefully.

If she'd been able to, she would have crossed her fingers. Instead, even though she was a strong agnostic, she sent up a plea to any gods listening. _Don't get caught. Don't get caught. Don't get caught._

Batman glared at Napier. If he had never seen anything so bizarre in his life, he was hiding it well. "A friend of yours, Crane?" he asked, indicating Napier. Crane glanced over his shoulder as well as he could, then looked back at Batman. "More like an _acquaintance_," he said.

"I work alone," Napier cut in. "Not in a team. Teamwork is for the… _socially organized_." He snickered at this, his lopsided mouth twisting into a grin. "So it'll just be you an' me, dukin' it out…"

Batman stared at him. "You must be new to this," he finally said.

Napier shook his head, still grinning. "Not as new as you think," he said, holding up the machine gun. "I got a couple of years under my belt… I know what I'm doing."

Crane shook his head, and Batman looked back at him. "The child is completely cracked," Crane muttered.

Batman's eyes narrowed. "Child?" he asked. It was impossible to tell Napier's age simply by looking at him, but Crane's statement put him at under thirty. Still fresh. Perhaps this one could be saved.

"You're probably going to want to remember my name…" Napier grabbed Maria with his other hand, pinning her to his chest with the machine gun, and reached into his overcoat with the hand that held the knife. When he pulled out his hand again, the knife had vanished, replaced with a playing card, which he held out to Batman. "So there's my card." He grinned wickedly, then slipped the knife out of his sleeve and put it back to Maria's throat.

Batman took the playing card, still holding Crane up with just one hand, and looked at it. "Joker," he said, monotone. Napier chuckled.

"You catch on quick!" he said, his voice lilting. "Unlike some." He held Maria close to his chest and leaned his face down over her shoulder, the tip of his tongue emerging to lightly touch the metal of the knife he held. Batman frowned at this. This guy was nuts. There would be no saving this psychopath. Why did he always end up with screwballs? Napier stared at Batman, challenging him to make a move. "So what's the deal, Bats?" he asked, amusing himself. "Are you gonna save the girl… or not?"

None of them had noticed Aidan's movement, and at this time, he'd reached the end of the aisle.

Maria was so captivated by the banter that she almost didn't notice it herself. She could gather that Napier was younger than Crane, who looked in his early thirties. He'd said that he had a few years of crime under his belt, which meant absolutely nothing in a city in which every other person you met had committed armed robbery. And he called himself the Joker.

With her years of studying psychology, she could safely say that this nut was cracked.

Too bad he wouldn't have the opportunity to prove how much, though, since at that moment Aidan chose to stand and launch a cloud of pepper spray directly at Napier's grinning mug. To encourage the man even more to put her the fuck down, she stomped hard on one of his feet. She closed her eyes and mouth tightly. If she was lucky, none of it would get in her system. If she wasn't, it just meant a few hours of hacking and sneezing as opposed to a slit in her throat.

She didn't need her college education to figure that one out.

"_AUGH!_" Napier's trusty knife clattered to the floor as his hand flew to his face, covering his stinging eyes. The machine gun pointed at the ceiling and a loud round of bullets released upwards. Then came the stomp to the foot. As if he had not already let go! He dropped the gun, reaching for his smarting foot, and it clattered to the floor, whacking him, hard, on the same foot. "MOTHER _FUCKER_!" He howled in pain, trying desperately to reach every aggrieved surface, hacking and sneezing, blinded. His eyes watered and he staggered back into the aisle, where he stepped wrong onto the aerosol can as it rolled past, spraying a thick cloud of toxin. He stumbled back and fell awkwardly between two rows of seats, barely catching his fall.

Batman watched him, frowning, somewhat concerned for this lunatic, then turned and dropped Crane firmly into one of the theatre's seats. "Don't - move," he warned him, getting right in the doctor's face. Like that would keep him there…! Batman knew it was a far stretch, but it was better to attend to first things first. If Crane got away… well, he would need time to lick his wounds and make some more of his toxin, so that gave him at least a little time to catch up with Crane before things got out of hand again.

Crane sat flat in the chair, pressed up against the back and sides of it as completely as he could, staring up at Batman with obedient, piercing eyes. He watched as Batman crossed to the two victims, pulling something out of his accessory belt… a syringe? "Take some of this, and give the rest to him," he instructed Maria, handing her a syringe of toxin vaccine. "You should both be fine. Thankfully neither of you got too bad of a dose." Then he turned to Napier.

Napier hacked and sneezed, scrubbing at his face, and then tried to open his eyes. They were bloodshot red, the green-black makeup streaming down his face in aggravated tear-trails, turning the upturned ends of his red grin down into a melted frown. He shook his head and looked up to see Batman standing over him. The caped crusader seemed to be eleven feet tall, at least, and covered in… spikes? It was hard to tell. His eyes burned bright red, and he had no skin over his mouth, just a gruesome barrage of piranha-like teeth in a skeletal jaw. He reached a clawed hand down and grabbed Napier up by the front of his vest, dragging him to his terrified feet, his large coat falling from his shoulders with a metallic clank.

Batman did not even want to think about how many knives were probably hidden in that coat.

Napier stared at him, twitching. For the tall, well-built man that he was, he seemed to shrink in Batman's presence, almost folding in on himself. He looked a lot less intimidating without his large, dirty coat. His normal skin colour was visible, which was slightly reassuring; it made him seem more human. Batman grabbed him firmly by the sleeve, and Napier did not even fight back. "Come on," he said. "We'll get you all down to the station. Inspector Gordon will be _very_ interested to see _you_," he added to Napier. Napier looked over at him with wide, red eyes, scared.

At the moment, to Napier, anything Batman said came out in a satanic rumble. Anyone Batman associated with would probably be exactly the same. Whoever 'Inspector Gordon' was, Napier was sure he did not want to meet him.

"You, too, Crane - " Batman began, turning, but Crane was gone.

It figured.


	5. Chapter Four

Maria took the syringe with shaking hands. Now that her anger was just about gone, she was starting to feel the effects of the toxin more sharply. Batman's face seemed a mask of scars, some bleeding freely, and his eyes were red and demonic. _You're okay, you're okay, just take it..._ she told herself, injecting it into her arm.

With only that, her head cleared. It was like magic. Her heartbeat began to slow, but she didn't wait for it to get back to normal before handing Aidan the antidote. His muscles tensed up when he jammed the syringe into his arm. Moments later, his face relaxed and collapsed into one of the theater chairs, eyes closed and breathing slowly.

She couldn't help but take a scornful look at Napier. Without the gun and knife, he wasn't intimidating at all, just some lunatic who thought he could make it big time. "You said you wanted to trade reviews?" she asked in a mocking tone. "Movie was horrible."

Okay, so maybe a bit petty. But it made her feel a bit better.

That taken care of, she turned her eyes to the man Gotham City newspapers were buzzing so much about. Now _he_ was intimidating. Black everything, including a "utility belt" (for lack of better words), cape, and mask fashioned to look like a bat's head. She felt the need to say something, to thank him, to beg him for an interview for her book. Instead, she asked, "Why bats?"

Strange question, but it deserved an answer. "Why not?" he replied. Then he looked up as the sound of police sirens reached his ears. He pulled a length of cord from his utility belt and tied Napier's hands with it, pushing the man into one of the theatre's seats. "Stay there," he told him. Napier nodded in understanding, still staring in fearful, morbid fascination at Batman. Batman reached down and grabbed the aerosol can, which stopped spraying. "I'm going to take this to the lab, for further investigation," he said. "See if it's been changed in any way."

"Freeze!" Officer Gordon was always the first on the scene when Batman was involved. It was just an unspoken law. He edged closer to the caped crusader and his catch, still holding his gun at the ready. "Who's that?" he asked, indicating Napier.

Batman handed over the playing card. "Look familiar?" he asked.

Gordon took the card and examined it. "Sure does. Same guy we were looking for a couple weeks ago." He glanced over at Napier. "He doesn't look like much, does he?"

"He's drugged, and probably in a lot of pain," Batman responded. "Better get him to the station quick before it wears off. He's got a lot of resilience, wouldn't want to test that."

"Right. Right." Gordon pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt and quickly clicked Napier's wrists into them. Then he turned back to Batman. "What about Crane?" he asked.

"You're lucky you've already taken the antidote. His toxin is everywhere." He indicated in a sweep. "You might want to tell your guys to stay outside. You wouldn't want mass panic amongst a bunch of men with guns."

"Yeah… no, wouldn't want that," Gordon agreed. He grabbed Napier by the sleeve and dragged him to his feet. Even without all his theatrical grandeur, Napier still stood a good four inches taller than Gordon, and much more muscularly built. "Okay, I'll take him out, bring him over to the station for questioning."

Batman nodded. "Don't forget his effects," he said, pointing to the coat. "That might help."

"Oh, right, sure." Gordon bent down and picked up the heavy coat. "Thanks for the tip - " he began to say, but when he turned around, Batman was gone. He paused for a moment, then turned to Maria and Aidan. "Are you two okay?" he asked. "I'm going to need you to come up to the station with me, for questioning. - Don't worry, you're not in trouble." He smiled at them, friendly. "We just need to know what happened. We've been trying to keep a hold on Doctor Crane for weeks now. We never expected him to get away. We just need to know exactly what happened here." He glanced over at Napier. "And somehow, I don't think he's going to want to spill the beans," he added with a sigh. Then he looked back at the two. "Don't worry," he said. "I won't make you ride in the same car as _this_ nut."

. . .

Wayne Manor had been rebuilt, and it was gorgeous. Not only was it gorgeous, it was in a much better locale than it had stood the last time. Bruce had done his best to have it built exactly the way it had been before, only with a few modifications; nothing to change the building dramatically, only little things meant to make it better. He had succeeded; the building was in a much better place, the Batcave was much bigger and better, but the general feel of the house was still the same - warm, inviting. It felt like home.

Of course, having Alfred there helped a lot.

At the moment, the elderly butler was reclining in one of the larger sofa-like chairs that were scattered periodically throughout the manor for that specific reason, with his feet propped up, reading a John Banville award-winner. He was not quite sure which one it was; they were all similar, but, being similar, were all good. He turned the page, not even looking up as the familiar steps of Bruce Wayne reached his ears.

"Good book, Alfred?" Wayne quipped, inspecting his tie in one of the mirrors.

"About the same as the rest of them, I s'pose," Alfred replied, setting down the book and looking over his glasses at Bruce. "And you, Master Wayne? How was the movie?"

Bruce grinned at him. "It was interesting," he said, "to say the least."

"Would you recommend it?" Alfred smiled.

Bruce considered this, then shook his head. "It's not for the faint of heart," he replied. He crossed to Alfred, pulling out the can of aerosol. "Could you make sure this gets to Fox?" he asked. "I'd like him to run some tests on it. See if he can figure anything out."

Alfred took the can from Bruce and set it down next to him. "I will be sure to do that, Sir," he said.

Bruce checked his hair in the mirror, then, satisfied with his appearance, he told Alfred, "I'm headed out to the police station to have a talk with Officer Gordon. Make sure no crazy people get in the house while I'm gone."

Alfred picked up his book and continued reading. "Too late."

. . .

Napier sat in his jail cell, fingertips held meticulously together, staring meditatively at the odd diamond shape that his hands made when they conjoined in that fashion. He had said nothing during his whole ordeal, when he had been questioned, when he had been pushed into this cold little cell and the door had been locked. The toxin had faded out by now, and he saw the Officer Gordon, whom he had been so terrified of, as a little, middle-aged man with a goofy moustache.

The tiniest grin quirked at the edges of his mouth. Perhaps Gordon thought the moustache would make him look manlier.

The tiny grin widened a little. Maybe Doctor Crane should think about growing a moustache, too.

He could not help it. He smiled.

They could not keep him here forever. Sooner or later, someone would come along to transfer him to another cell, or to give him the chance to get up and walk around, or bring him to an interrogation room. In any circumstance, he knew he would be able to overpower the person who had been sent to collect him and get away. He had confidence in his own strength and cunning.

His hands twitched, and he brought the nails of one hand to his mouth. They had stripped him of his coat, his weaponry, his gloves - everything but the clothes on his back. His nails would be gone before they even started to pay attention to him. He hated stress; it was usually so easy to deal with, but now, he realized that if he were normal, if he were not the way he was, he would have died a long time ago from high blood pressure. He did not respond well to stress.

Which was probably why he was the way he was.

Just then, a door opening caught Napier's attention. He looked up to see a group of people entering his cell. He took his fingers, now stained with red face-paint, away from his mouth and grinned at his visitors. "Evening," he said slowly, savouring his words, "commissioner."

"Evening," Gordon replied, unamused. "Mister Joker, there are some people I'd like you to meet. This is Mister Wayne," he indicated Wayne, who nodded to Napier, frowning. "And these are the two people you and your companion attacked tonight. They've asked us not to give their names." He indicated Maria and Aidan. "Now, what we'd like to know is, do you know where Doctor Crane is?"

Napier looked at his visitors, first at Wayne, then at Aidan, and then at Maria. "So," he said, grinning, "we meet again." He ran his tongue along his upper row of teeth, then looked back at Gordon. "Well, I don't think I could tell you where he went," he said.

Gordon turned to the three visitors. "We checked him out, but came up with nothing." He told them. "He's got no ID on him. Nutty as a fruitcake. Got nothing in his pockets but knives and lint."

"Now, I've never understood that expression," Napier said, getting to his feet and crossing to the bars. He put his face between two bars, holding onto them and looking out at his visitors like a monkey in a zoo. "If it's a fruit cake, then what is it doing having _nuts_ in it?" He licked his lips, looking between them. "Am I wrong?" he asked.

"That's not the question at hand, Mister Joker," Wayne replied, frowning.

"Please," Napier said, leaning back but still holding onto the bars of his enclosure, "it's just _Joker._ No Mister."

"Joker," Wayne corrected himself patiently. "Where is Crane?"

Napier swung a bit on the bars, considering Wayne. "I just _told_ you," he finally answered, pulling himself back to his original position and staring at him from between the bars, "I can't tell you that." He grinned at them. Then he pointed at Maria. "But I think _she_ can."

"The movie was a bad idea."

Maria shot Aidan a look of disbelief, to find that a grim smile was pasted on his lips. She squeezed his knee and heaved a sigh. They were seated in the back of Officer Gordon's police cruiser, on their way to the big house. To recap on the night's events, they had been infected with toxic gas, confronted with two deranged criminals, and then saved by a man wearing a bat suit.

She nodded, head cradled in her hands, and rubbed her temples. "Mmhmm."

Gordon had been polite enough, giving them a moment to collect themselves before they entered the station, but he couldn't mask his true intentions. Unless he was something close to a god, he was feeling no sympathy for them, just a burning desire for answers. Maria sighed. Too bad they didn't have any.

The last thing she'd wanted to do was come face to face with Napier again. Of course, with her luck the way it was, that's exactly what Gordon _had_ wanted her to do. She'd shaken out her hair (which had, miraculously, been let loose from its pony tail for her date), readjusted her brown suede coat, smiled at Aidan, then followed the officer into the maze of holding cells in the bowels of the station.

Now, she stood with a glare aimed at Napier that could pierce solid brick. Out of her peripheral vision she could see Gordon eyeing her as well, and she finally turned to him. "If I knew _anything_, I would have told you right away," she said, an edge of irritation breaking through her tone.

Aidan stepped in at that point, pinning "the Joker" to the wall with a similar glance. "How would she know anything? She met the guy once or twice for an interview, that's it." He wrapped an arm protectively around Maria's shoulders, which she shrugged off. She really had to tell Aidan to stop the tough-guy act, it was starting to get on her nerves.

"Mr. _Napier_," she said, carefully emphasizing his name, "I don't know where you think I get my information. I don't know anything about Crane."

Napier nodded meditatively, leaning back from the bars and swinging slightly again, looking at the ground, as if he expected to find some kind of answer encrypted in the tiles. "Right," he answered slowly. "You know nothing, I know nothing…" He looked up at her. "But I bet, between us, we could figure something out."

"We're not interested in _bargaining_ with you, Mister Napier," Wayne quickly picked up the name Maria had used. He was not sure if it was a real one, but it sounded valid enough.

Napier glared at him. "That's not," he growled, "my name."

"Fine, _Joker_," Wayne fixed him with a scrutinizing stare. "We're not interested in bargaining with you."

Napier shrugged, letting go of the bars and sashaying back to his seat. "Fine!" he exclaimed. "I'll just sit here and… contemplate life." He sat down, facing them, and leaned back, resting one ankle on his other knee and chewing his nails thoughtfully.

Wayne sighed, staring in at him. "You know something," he discerned, "you're just too stubborn to tell us."

"Close, but no cigar," Napier quipped, taking his hand from his mouth. Then it went back again, like a magnet.

Wayne crossed his arms. "You want your freedom." he guessed again.

"Who doesn't?" Napier asked. "But I tell you what. You set me free to work with the little lady, and together, I'm sure we can track down the good doctor." He grinned at them. "Deal?"

"No!" Gordon exclaimed, rushing to the bars. "That's _not_ a deal! I'm not going to let you out of here until you talk."

Napier shrugged, his nails returning to his mouth. "You'll die before I do, I s'pose," he sighed.

Gordon put his hand to his forehead and walked away, muttering to himself, thinking. This kind of reasoning with lunatic criminals could be hazardous, and he could not always count on Batman to keep these people under control. He would have to do some of it himself.

"What are you thinking, Gordon?" Wayne asked quietly.

Gordon shook his head. "I just don't know, Bruce." he sighed. "I mean, if we let him go, he'll run away. Then what?"

"He might," Wayne said, "or he might not. Not if we have leverage."

"What kind of leverage do we have against someone like _that_?" Gordon indicated Napier, who was considering his red-stained fingers with a kind of bored superiority. "He's a nut. All he owns is the clothes off his back and that stupid suitcase."

"So bribe him with the clothes off his back and that stupid suitcase," Wayne answered simply.

Gordon looked at him in surprise. "Send him out on a manhunt _stark naked_?" he asked, incredulous.

"No, no, of course not," Wayne frowned. "Keep his coat, his knives, and his suitcase at the station. If he wants them back - which, trust me, he will - then he'll keep his half of the bargain. Trust me, I know guys like this. I've dealt with enough of them."

Gordon sighed again, then looked up at Maria and Aidan. "I don't think much of it, but what do you think?" he asked. "Of course, it would be putting your life, specifically, in danger, ma'am… do you think it's worth it?"

"HELL no." Aidan smashed a fist into the bars, setting off an echoing clang that hurt Maria's ears.

She sighed. Trust her buddy-boy to save the day.

She shot a look at him that clearly told him to back off. To her surprise, he did, with a hurt and confused expression. Ah, well; she'd deal with that later, when there was more time. Now she had a different sort of problem on her hands. For the second time in just a week, she was being asked to work with a lunatic.

Her fingers itched towards her mouth, but she stopped them. What the hell was she supposed to think of this? Since when did Gotham police put together a team of a psycho criminal and a washed-up writer and hope for the best? Then again, desperate times called for desperate measures. A thought of Crane and his toxin swept through her mind. Desperate times. That was pretty damn accurate.

But to work with _him_? Maria took a look through the bars of the holding cell and met Napier's brown gaze. In her mind, he was more dangerous than Crane. He might not look like much without his shady overcoat, but she knew from personal experience that the muscles hidden by his shirt and vest were quite enough to put her out of commission. She'd have to be ten different kinds of crazy to consider it.

_It'd be for the general good._

Screw the general good. Keeping a pulse was a higher priority than the stupid city.

_Someone has to stop Crane._

Yeah, well, why her? She'd already had enough dealings with the lunatic to last a lifetime.

_You're just scared._

Now, the fuck with that.

She pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, then let out a puff of stale air. Counseling would be necessary after this whole thing was over and Crane was behind bars; her ability to make sane decisions seemed to have flown out the window. "I'd get some police backing on this?" she asked, hoping that Gordon wasn't crazy enough to send her, an untrained civilian, out alone. Aidan made some outraged noises at her side, but she ignored them.

Gordon nodded. "Of course," he said. "We wouldn't want anything to happen to you. Gotham City Police Force prides itself on making sure incidents are few and far-between." Wayne cleared his throat subtly, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet. "…And for the rest, there's Batman," Gordon put in. Wayne nodded.

"Speaking of lunatics," he said with a smile. "I don't know what his deal is… running around dressed as a bat. _Clearly_ the man has problems."

"But he's a lunatic on our side," Gordon pointed out. "So we don't mind if he's a little eccentric."

"A _little_ eccentric?" Napier asked, looking up. "Man's a nut. Dresses as a bat. You heard the millionaire, officer… he's got _problems_." He licked his lips. "Maybe you shouldn't trust him quite as much as you do… you never know… he might turn on you one of these days."

"Batman would _never_ turn on Gotham," Wayne countered. "Batman has sworn to protect the city, and he would not go back on his word. That would make him no better than a common criminal - like you."

"I'm not a common criminal," Napier replied with a grin, "I'm the_ smooth_ criminal." He chuckled at this, getting up from his seat, crossing to the bars of his cell, and putting his face between two of them, staring out a Wayne with a cruel kind of smirk on his face. "And if I didn't know any better, Mister Wayne, I'd have to say… you're a bit _close_ to this Batman character."

Wayne looked taken aback. _Shit. _Had he said too much? "I don't know what you're talking about," he said. "I simply believe in what Batman stands for."

Napier snickered. "Have a little _crush_, do we?" he asked.

A wave of relief washed through Wayne. "No," he replied flatly. "I'm very happily involved with a beautiful woman. Thank you."

"Really?" Napier licked his lips again. "What's her name?"

"Mister Napier," Gordon cut over him. Napier threw him a Look. "Sorry - _Joker_," Gordon corrected himself. Napier stepped away from the bars and returned to his seat, and his fingernails returned to his mouth. "We agree to your plan. On one condition." Napier raised his eyebrows at this in interest. "We keep your effects until you find Crane."

Napier jumped up from his seat and flew to the bars, banging into them with a resounding _clang_. "You can't _do_ that!" he exclaimed. If he had been any more worked up, he probably would have started climbing the bars. As it was, he was holding onto them so tightly his knuckles were turning white. "You can't do that to me! I'm nothing without those, you hear?!"

"Which is exactly why we're doing it," Gordon replied. "You work cooperatively with Gotham police and this young lady here, and you get them back. You refuse to comply, and you can sit here and rot for the rest of your miserable life, for all I care."

Napier frowned at Gordon, darkly, detaching himself from the bars of his cell and backing away, back to his seat. He sat down, his brown eyes still locked on Gordon's dull blue ones. "If I help the little lady to find Crane," he said slowly, "then I get not only the satisfaction of seeing his condescending mug behind bars… but I get my effects back…" He paused here. "…And I get to go free?"

"Free? Hell no!" Gordon exclaimed.

"Well then, what's the point?" Napier asked. "I mean, there's no way you're going to let me have my things back if you're just going to keep me locked up here. Am I wrong?" His nails returned to his mouth and he sat back, contemplating Gordon.

Gordon sighed heavily. "There's just no dealing with these guys!" he exclaimed.

Then Wayne stepped forward. "If we set you free," he said, "then you would probably just be picked up again by Batman as soon as you set foot outside this jailhouse."

"But I'll have my effects," pointed out Napier. "So it's a risk I'm willing to take."

Gordon sighed again and reached down to his belt, unclipping his ring of keys. "I _hate _doing this," he said, flipping through until he found the right one.

Napier watched him with keen, intelligent eyes, his fingers drifting slowly away from his mouth. Wayne looked up and saw this, and frowned. "Better give those keys to me, Gordon," he said, reaching for them. "The handcuffs, too."

Gordon nodded, handing the keys over, and then, upon unclipping them, the handcuffs. Wayne crossed to Napier's cell, holding up the handcuffs. "You have to wear these until you get outside," he said. "Wouldn't want you wandering around the police station. You could cause trouble."

"You underestimate me, sir," Napier replied, standing. It was an impressive face-off; both men were over six feet tall and well-built. There was a tense moment where they glared at one another, then Napier shrugged. "Cuff, me, officer," he said sarcastically, holding out his wrists to Wayne. Wayne nodded, reached in, and cuffed him. Then he unlocked the door of the cell, went inside, and led Napier out.

As Napier passed Maria, he grinned at her. "This is going to be so much _fun_," he hissed. Then he was dragged out of the room.

A last glare was sent to Napier before Maria blinked hard. All these evil looks were going to strain her muscles. Gordon spoke briefly to an officer through his walkie-talkie, then nodded to her. She smiled back, and spared a last glance for Wayne.

Bruce Wayne. She'd heard stories about this eccentric millionaire. He'd apparently burned down his house not too long ago in a drunken fit. She grinned as the officer Gordon had paged came to get her, and followed obediently. And Gordon had called _Batman_ eccentric.

When Aidan started to follow her with another word of protest, she turned and crossed her arms. "Oh, no you don't. You're going home, where you're going to get some sleep and just calm down. You don't need to get involved in this." She turned and followed the policeman out, catching just the final expression on his face. It was a weird mix of emotions, and for some reason made her think of a friend who hadn't been invited to some party but knew she was going to get wasted so who really gave a fuck anyways?

The officer started explaining the situation, saying that last time he'd escaped Crane had stayed moving so that he wouldn't be found. Maria was only half-listening. Did Aidan honestly think she was looking forward to this? It might be fun for some thrill-seeker like him, but she didn't exactly relish the prospect of working with a lunatic to find another lunatic. Or was he jealous that she'd be spending time with a big bunch of burly policemen? That almost made her laugh.

"...so you understand that we need to catch him as soon as possible," the man finished, finally turning in time to see a smile spread across Maria's face. He raised his eyebrows. She quickly resumed a look of complete attention and nodded. "Right." _No, actually, I thought we wanted to go on a wild goose chase for a couple of days,_ she thought. These officers were so melodramatic sometimes. Not that she'd had any prior dealings with them.

. . .

Napier was an idiot.

He was childish, he was clumsy, he was spontaneous, he was fearless.

But most of all, Napier was a big dumb gorilla who sucked on knives and shot off guns to make himself feel better. He was all for show, with that stupid bright outfit of his and that ridiculous face paint. He might have had a tragic past, but it had not done for him what it had done for Crane. Whatever did not kill Crane simply made him stronger. Whatever did not kill Napier simply made him… stranger.

There was no doubt about it. Napier was an idiot.

Crane had retreated to his underground laboratory, thanks to the fact that the police had been so thorough in cleaning it out the first time and by now had almost completely forgotten about it, thinking that no one would be foolish enough to go back to the same location twice. Foolish, no. _Clever_ - that was more like it. Because this was the last place in the world they would expect to find him - the first place in the world he would think of returning to.

It was so perfect it made Crane almost glow on the inside. Butofcourse, glowing was for idiots.

Like Napier.

Crane sat contemplating the human brain he had removed from a corpse he had found in one of the back alleys as it bobbed and bubbled in a container of formaldehyde. The corpse had been the one of some teenaged girl whose throat had been slit. He did not know who it was, but she looked like she had been there for only a couple of weeks, at the most, so her insides were sure to be fresh. The human brain was not particularly helpful in his quest to recreate his fear toxin, but it was amusing.

He had never really had the chance to get his fingers dirty in his line of work.

Now he sat, watching the brain, and writing out the ingredients he would have to collect for his toxin, the blood from his hand dripping onto his paper and staining it, making it hard to read. He did not really need the list; he knew the ingredients by heart. But it always helped to have a backup, in case the impossible happened. Or, in case he needed to contemplate the current ingredients in order to replace one… and make the toxin even more powerful.

He picked up the list and stared at it. It seemed like a good enough mixture, but something seemed to be missing from it… he shrugged, setting it down and looking back at the human brain. It would come to him… but until then, he would make it the old-fashioned way.

It still seemed to work just as well.

He picked up a small can he had put together already, only about as large as a can of pepper-spray, and contemplated it. Using it would be a waste. Unless he could use it… in the least wasteful way possible.

He reached over and picked up a slip of paper, staining it red with the blood on his hands. Tonight was the night Wayne Enterprises would be holding its annual big-wig Gala. There were sure to be tons of high, mighty, important people in attendance. He grinned. That would be the _perfect_ opportunity to try out his toxin…

. . .

Bruce Wayne hung his jacket up on the hook by the front door. He only had a little time before going out and meeting up with Rachel at the gala. They had not seen each other in weeks, and he wanted to look his best. He started up the stairs towards his bedroom when Alfred caught sight of him. "Oh, Master Wayne!" he called, "Mister Fox came by earlier today and got the toxins. He came by just a little while ago to say that they've been changed a little from the last time, but the old antidote should still work fine, Sir. He says he'll have to do some more research on it, though."

Wayne leaned down the stairwell and looked down at Alfred. "He came by to say he was working on it?" he asked. Alfred shrugged.

"The man's a gentleman," he said, smiling.

Wayne nodded, then started back up the stairs. "I'm going to the gala tonight, Alfred. I've got to look my best."

"Very good, Sir. Will you be wanting some help with that?" asked Alfred, watching him.

"No, I think I'm good. Uh, do you want to grab something to eat before we go? There'll probably only be liquid food there, if you know what I mean."

"No, Sir," Alfred said, "I'm not hungry, Sir."

Wayne descended a few steps. "You already eat, Alfred?" he asked.

Alfred grinned, shyly. "Had a bit of dark meat just a little while ago, Sir. If you know what I mean, that is."

Wayne paused, considering this, then nodded slowly. "I don't think I _want_ to know what that means," he said, starting back up the stairs.

"No, Sir," agreed Alfred, still smiling. "I don't believe you do."


	6. Chapter Five

The party was in full swing by the time Rachel arrived with her date. He was tall, dashing, and, best of all, he was consistent. His name was Harvey Dent - a strange name, but that was a superficial thing - and he was an Attorney at Law - a boring job, but at least it was a sturdy one. Rachel held onto her date's arm, leading him into the party. This was the first time Dent had been invited to one of Wayne Enterprises' galas, and he was a little nervous. Rachel had told him that there was nothing to worry, and that did miracles for his nerves.

Harvey Dent was a tall man, well-built, with sandy-blonde hair and a boxy smile, keen blue eyes, and a sharp, intellectual kind of laugh that made men feel small. He shook hands with everyone and got himself a drifter drink, walking around with it in one hand and Rachel in the other. No one had good conversation at these kinds of things, but that was to be expected. They were all businessmen anyways, and businessmen never did anything for fun.

He approached Alfred, who was walking around with a towel over one arm and a tray of drinks in his hands, and stopped him. "Hey, there," Dent said, smiling politely. "You're Bruce Wayne's butler, right?"

Alfred grinned back, just as strained and polite. "Yes, sir, that I am." he said.

"Right… you know Miss Dawes, right?" Dent asked, indicating Rachel, who was chatting with a couple of stock brokers. Alfred nodded.

"All her life, sir," he said. "Since she was very small."

"Right. Anything I should be aware of?" Dent asked. "Any jealous boyfriends?"

At this, Alfred laughed. "Oh," he said, shaking his head, "you have no idea." Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving Harvey Dent feeling very confused.

In the depths of Akham Asylum, a man laughed hysterically.

He was locked up in a straight jacket in one of the padded cells of the asylum. His dark brown hair hung in curtains around his face, almost shielding his cloudy green eyes. They darted nervously to each corner of the room, and finally rested on the face of the middle-aged woman standing inside the door. Her forehead had a lingering purple bruise on it; the sight made him giddy.

"We can hear you screaming all the way upstairs, Mr. Goodhart," Jessica said with a sigh. "What do you want this time?

He grinned toothily up at her, and repeated the request he'd submitted at least once a day since he'd been transferred here almost three years ago. "I want to see my daughter."

The woman sighed and shook her head. He shut his eyes and began laughing again, barely hearing the click of her shoes on the tile floor as she left and the clang of the door behind her.

. . .

Maria shook her head for what felt like the hundredth time that night. It was getting way too late, and she was running out of patience. "Of _course_ he could have gone there. He thinks of himself as clever, so it'd be the best trick in the world to..." She stopped talking when she saw the blank, indifferent faces of the policemen. "Forget it. Just check the Asylum laboratory."

Talking to these blockheads was worse than some of the flightier girls at the university, she thought with more than a trace of bitterness. They only wanted to see what was directly in front of their faces, and it took forever to convince them to do anything they didn't want to. Not to mention that they were the most unmotivated sloths she'd ever met. No wonder crime ran rampant in Gotham City.

To be honest, though, working with the police was fun. Okay, not fun. She was tracking down a man who could, and probably would, kill people if he was let loose for long. But it had a certain exciting edge to it that she was finding she liked. She'd never admit that half the fun was in ordering the officers around. As their primary source of information besides Napier (who still refused to say a word regarding Crane's location), she had authority.

"Where would he go...?" she murmured to herself, leaning over the map of the city stretched out on a table. There were half a dozen red flags already stuck in it; most of the city's major drug bust spots had been covered, as well as the city hall and museums. Basically, every place that had a lot of people. She had no doubt that Crane had the resources to make some more toxin, and fast. He could be planning an attack right now. But where...?

The bulletin board in the corner caught her eye. A big invitation was stuck over all the other notices on it; one of the officers was very proud about being invited to the Wayne Enterprises' yearly gala.

Wait a minute.

The gala was a huge event for the city. Nearly every notable individual in Gotham would be attending; the place would be jammed. Security would be tight, but she didn't think that would stop Crane. A few of the men realized that she'd been silent for a while, and followed her gaze to the flier. Looks of understanding dawned on their faces. Maria turned and pointed back at it. "Looks like a nice spot for some mass panic, doesn't it?"

Napier pulled the invitation down from the bulletin board and looked at it. "I think," he said, holding it up so all the policemen and Maria could see it, "we should go pay Mister Wayne a little visit… and maybe pick up a mutual friend while we're at it." He grinned at them, then down at Maria. "What d'ya say, little lady?" he asked, sidling up to her. "Be my date?"

. . .

The party was everything Bruce Wayne could have wanted: it was large, it was loud, and, most of all, it was tear-jerkingly boring. Every person he talked to had some kind of get-rich-quick scheme that took forever to explain. So much for getting rich quick. Bruce shook the hands of everyone, giving each his polite smile, all the while looking for Rachel… there was only so much space in Wayne Tower's ballroom. She was sure to be around here somewhere…

Then he saw her, holding onto the arm of some blond. He frowned. He had never known Rachel to be fond of blonds… she always seemed the type to go for brunettes. But, then again, he was biased.

He crossed to Rachel and tapped her on the shoulder, and she turned to face him. She was even more beautiful than he remembered, with her hair cut in that nouveau bob, her lips painted the most succulent shade of red, and her blue eyes - had her eyes always been blue? He felt terrible for wondering, but it had been a while since they had last seen each other - rimmed with just the slightest touch of black, she looked like a dream come true. "Bruce!" she exclaimed.

Then her date turned around.

"Well, well," Dent said, grinning up at Bruce. "If it isn't the notorious Bruce Wayne."

"Um, Bruce, this is - " Rachel began, but Dent cut over her.

"Harvey Dent, Attorney at Law." he said.

"Ah," Bruce said, smiling back politely. "Only the _second_-most boring job in the world." Both men laughed politely. "Well, I see you and Miss Dawes are pretty good friends," he said. Rachel blushed and looked away.

"Oh, yeah," Dent said. "Rachel and I have been seeing each other for…"

"Two weeks," Rachel said softly.

"Has it only been two weeks?" Dent asked. "Wow. Time flies, I guess."

"Ha, yes, I guess it does." Bruce looked at Rachel, but she looked away. "Well, uh, I think I'll go and get something to drink," Wayne said, looking back up at Dent.

"Sure thing. Just don't burn anything down this time," Dent joked.

"Ha, right. That." Wayne smiled, then turned and started to walk away. He crossed to Alfred and took a drink off his tray. "Remind me not to kill Rachel's date," he told Alfred in a low voice.

"Not at your own party, Sir," Alfred replied. "It would be most impolite. Wait until he's going out to his car, at least."

. . .

MASS PANIC.

Well, not exactly mass panic.

But, close enough. Or, it would be… when he finally got around to it.

Crane had dressed up for the event; he had combed his dark hair and put on his glasses, making him look intelligent and wealthy. Even if he had barely anything in his pockets, he could at least try to feign the outward illusion of wealth. He approached the security at the front of the gala and smiled up at the man, a bitter, strange kind of smile. "Do you have your invitation?" the man asked. Crane took a breath, still smiling, and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.

"I just might happen to," he said, pulling a crisp hundred-dollar-bill out of his pocket, "right here."

The man looked down at the bill he was being handed, and the hand that was holding it. It was still covered in a thin crusting of blood. Then he looked up at Crane, who was staring intently at him, his ice-blue eyes boring into the man's skull. The two stared at each other for a long, tense moment. Then the man took the bill and put it into his pocket. "Welcome to the party, Mister Smith," he said.

Crane smiled at him again and nodded. "Thank you, good sir," he said, and went inside.

. . .

OW."

Maria's eye watered, protesting sharply at being poked for the fiftieth time. Pulling the mascara applicator away from her face, she heard a faint snicker outside the ladies room, and felt a strong urge to punch something.

Ninety percent of her brain was screaming that this was stupid. She didn't want to play dressup for some stupid rich snobs to ooh and aah at. Plus, the only dress her size that the station's "disguise closet," as it had been affectionately dubbed, contained was a skimpy azure blue number, complete with no straps and a black silk sash across her belly. She looked at it in the mirror and shook her head. Hopefully someone would get pictures, because this was the first and last time she'd wear something so ridiculous.

The smaller, more sensible part reminded her that it was necessary. Breaking into Wayne Tower during the gala unannounced with a dozen policemen would cause just as much panic as Crane's toxin, and that was the last thing they wanted. Thus, they'd simply have to up the security, send her and Napier in to keep a lookout for the doctor, and hope for the best.

Seemed like there was a lot of that train of thought going on lately.

When she had finally put on a thin layer of lipstick and readjusted her not-quite-conservative dress, she left the bathroom. The guard outside gave her a once-over and nodded. "Thank God you're the same size as Frank. Let's go."

She shuddered and didn't ask.

They headed towards the front doors, her companion talking all the way. "We're going to go with the classic story of foreign business entrepreneurs," he explained, nodding to one of the guards at the door. "You were invited to talk with Mr. Wayne about business secrets. We plan on alerting him of this as soon as possible." She nodded, just playing along. This all felt more like the CIA than just a city police agency. Next thing you knew, she'd be involved in a gunfight with double agents.

She suddenly wondered what they could have done with Napier. Hopefully there were showers at the station. And _lots_ of makeup remover.

Napier stared at his reflection in the mirror of the men's room of the police station. They had dressed him up in a stylish black tuxedo - a "monkey suit", as Napier called it - and had removed all of his thick, resistant makeup. Now he stared at the reflection of a man he had not seen in over five years, if not more. He ran a finger across the gash where his dimple should have been, then across the slightly twisted corner of his mouth. They had managed to scrub and scrub away at his makeup, and eventually remove just about all of it, but they had not been able to do anything about his somewhat mangled face. He sighed as he examined his face in the mirror, and a touch of humanity returned to him for a moment as he thought about who he had once been… just a simple blue-collar worker. Just another everyman.

He touched the gash again, thoughtfully, then started fooling with his hair. They had not been able to do much about it, though with their scrubbing and teasing, it was now clean and soft and styled in a somewhat more "presentable" fashion, and more of the original honey-brown shone through; the green, however, was still certainly there. They would probably make him wear a hat. Either that, or hope that whatever highfalutin fat-cats were there thought that "foreign" meant, well, "unusual", and took it with a grain of salt.

"Mister Napier," Gordon said behind him. Napier turned to see Gordon holding out a hat. He sighed.

Butofcourse.

"I hate this," Napier hissed to Gordon, taking the hat and putting it carelessly on his head. "This dressing up stuff. _Hate_ it."

Gordon resisted the urge to laugh. "Sure. Well, just get your story straight, and… get your date to fix your hat before you go inside."

"What?" Napier asked bitterly, "they've never seen anyone with my colour hair before?"

"Only behind bars," Gordon answered frankly. "Now come on, we've got to get you two to the gala before Crane strikes."

"Crane won't strike so soon," Napier said, his familiar grin beginning to return to his what-could-be-called handsome face. "He'd wait until the moment was just… right." He chuckled. "He's not stupid, officer, no, sir. Not the doc. Doc's smart," he tapped his own temple. "He doesn't just attack willy-nilly."

"Like you?" Gordon asked.

Napier looked over at him. "No," he said. "I attack when it suits me. Or when I find it amusing. …Or both, if that happens to be the case." He smiled at Gordon. "Oh, yes, commissioner… there is a method to the madness."

He turned, and stopped short when he saw Maria standing before him, all dressed up, with her makeup done and her hair and dress looking stunning. He stared at her, his eyebrows raised in surprise, his mouth hanging slightly open, looking every inch the shy twenty-something he would have been, if disaster had not struck him so long ago. For a moment, he was transported back in time, to when he had first seen the woman who would become his wife… and then he was thrown back to the present, sharply, like glass shattering. He blinked, closed his mouth, swallowed, and then looked at Maria again. "You look… nice," he said. Then, holding out his arm to her, he grinned at her, that old, familiar grin, and asked, "Shall we?"

Maria watched Napier exit the men's room with wide eyes, but caught herself a moment before he turned around. She primly ignored the appendage offered her and climbed into the back seat of the black car by herself. "What do you know, you're human after all," she muttered, more for her benefit than his. She wouldn't really admit that she was _surprised_ that he was a normal person under all of the makeup and grime. It was shocking, though, to see the transformation.

The general plan ran through her head again. They go in, they scope out Crane (if he was even there), they let the police know. Then they clear out and let the boys in the uniforms go to work. And _then_ she goes home to a sweet puppy, a comfy bed, and a warm cup of veggie soup from a can. She could smell it already.

Hopefully the ride wouldn't be long. She smoothed out her dress and leaned her head against the seat, shutting her eyes. (Of course, she did this with care to not rumple her perfectly straightened and teased hair.) She wasn't one to make small talk with criminals. Except...

"What happened?" She opened her eyes for a brief moment and tapped her own cheek with a finger to show Napier what she meant. Curiosity killed the cat, she supposed. But cats were stupid, and she was no cat.

Napier paused, his eyebrows furrowing slightly, then turned to look at her. "I, uh…" He was going back, back in time… it was the strangest feeling. His frown deepened a little more. "My, uh…" He bit his lip, thinking. "It happened a long time ago," he said. "I was… a college dropout. Young… stupid." He looked over. The window between the backseat of the police cruiser and the two officers sitting in front had been closed, giving them a sense of privacy. The night was still outside, quiet. It was an odd feeling; usually Gotham was buzzing with life, the traffic honking and roaring, the sound of crime on every corner… but now, nothing seemed to stir.

He looked back at her, his brown eyes sad. "I had… a wife," he said slowly. "We were young, reckless… high school sweethearts, you know how that story goes." He tried to quirk the slightest hint of a smile, but it quickly faded. He suddenly felt his own body as a human entity, and looked down at his hands, tan, large. It had been so long since he had thought of himself as human… "Well, as you can probably guess, there was not much opportunity for someone who didn't even make it all the way through college." he said. Then he turned to her, "But how _could_ I? I mean, there were the bills to be paid, and Kitty was…"

His voice trailed off, and he looked away, out the window. "I don't know why I'm telling you this," he said. "You don't care. You look at me, and you don't see a person… you see a lunatic, a dangerous criminal." He sighed then, and his hand went, gently, back to the gash in his face. "But I wasn't always this way," he said. As he spoke, his voice began to get deeper, more gentle. "The only place I could find work was as a handyman, and you know how it is in Gotham… minimum wage is a joke. They wouldn't pay you at all, if they could help it. Well, Kitty and I were struggling to make ends meet, living in a little apartment… and then I was approached by these guys."

The crease in his forehead deepened as he thought about it. "Real shady types… I was afraid they meant trouble for me and Kitty, but they just wanted to help me out, or so they said." He traced the twist at the edge of his mouth thoughtlessly. "They offered me a job with them, doing some shady stuff I'm not proud of… caused a real rift between me and Kitty." His hand dropped to his lap and he leaned his head back against the seat's headrest. "They, uh… they got me involved in some pretty terrible stuff," he said. "I was never a killer, back then… but it was just as bad, if not worse."

Napier looked out the window. It was a hard story to swallow, but… he felt so much better, getting it off his chest like that. He had never really thought about it like that before, but now that he did, he was amazed he had not snapped sooner. "They set me up as a dealer," he said. "_Heroin_, of all things. _Guns_, too. Kitty didn't want either one in the house… she made that perfectly clear. Didn't want any of that stuff around the… baby." He almost choked as that word left his lips. Was he going to cry? He did not think so; he did not cry. That was so out of character for him.

He cleared his throat, then went on, "Well, as time went by, I kept getting dragged deeper and deeper into this new world… I wanted out, I wanted out so badly, but it just kept dragging me further in… by the time I finally got up the courage to tell them I wanted out, I was so far in that they just laughed at me and gave me another shipment to sell…" He chuckled bitterly in retrospect, "I was probably stoned at the time… God, I was so _stupid_." The small smile faded from his face, replaced with a sad frown. "And then one day, I come in, and I tell them, 'I can't do this anymore… my wife doesn't want me to do this anymore. I'm about to be a father, and I don't want my child to have a father who deals with people like you.' And then…"

He took a deep inhalation of breath, and let it out in a heavy huff, trying to keep a stolid expression. He cleared his throat, "Later that day, they said to me… 'oh, Jack, you can keep working for us after all…'" He paused again. "And I said, 'what?' …And they said, 'yeah, Jack, you don't have to worry about your wife anymore…'" He breathed deeply. "They said, 'there's been an accident at your house.' So I went back to the house… and there were ambulances everywhere… and the entire house was caving in on itself." He looked out the window, resting his elbow against the window-frame, his knuckles drifting meditatively to his mouth. "I remember it was raining... They tried to stop me, but I went inside anyways… 'Kitty!' I screamed…"

He paused again, his breath shuddering, then went on, "And there she was, in the kitchen, lying on the floor. I checked for a pulse, I tried to give her mouth-to-mouth, but nothing worked… So I picked her up, and started to bring her outside… when this… wall, collapsed on top of us." He shrugged. "They managed to get us out of there, somehow… when I woke up at the hospital, they said they'd taken a piece of plywood out of my cheek and I would be lucky to have skin grow back there… I had to get stitches on my mouth… and then I asked about Kitty…" He paused, remembering the scene. "For the longest time, nobody said anything… then someone said… 'I'm sorry, Mister Napier. Kitty and the baby didn't make it.'"

Napier paused now, a long, thoughtful pause, trying to regain his composure. If he let this woman, this… stranger, see his more sensitive side, she might try to use it against him at some later time. "But that's how life goes, I guess," he said, turning back to her. "I broke my heroin habit, and eventually, I'll break the necks of every person who killed my wife." He cleared his throat again, then looked back up towards the road ahead. "Well, here we are," he said as the car came to a stop, sitting up straight and regaining some shred of his original character, "the big party."

He smoothed out his tuxedo, checked his hat in the reflection of the window, and then turned to her with a grin. "Well, let's go!" he said. He opened his door, then paused and turned back to her. "Oh, one more thing," he said. He reached over and, with a playful grin, put one of his tan hands on her closer breast. "For good luck," he said with a wink, then let go and got out of the car.

Her ring finger was numb.

She looked down and stopped squeezing her ring so hard. This was the second time a man she barely knew had bared his soul to her. Twice in a week; that had to be some kind of record. You'd think she'd be used to this sort of thing by now. She eyed her finger, which was a faded purple. Guess not.

She almost didn't _want_ to hear this. It was much more comfortable thinking of people like Napier and Crane as psychopaths without reason. They enjoyed killing and hurting people, that's why they did what they did. When they started to have lives, people that they loved...That made them real people. She even had a first name now: Jack.

Not to mention that she didn't know how to react. Nodding and saying, "Oh, yes, how horrible" seemed trite; she was no psychologist. With another person she might offer a shoulder to cry on (hah) or even a gentle pat on the back. Somehow, she didn't figure that he'd appreciate it.

At his exit, however, a scowl twisted itself onto her face. "Oh, _lovely,_" she spat, leaving the car with a bit less grace than she'd entered it. A hard smack to his shoulder and a warning look were the only retribution she got, though. She walked with a huffy air toward the entrance without waiting for the pervert.

"Bruce!"

Bruce Wayne turned when he heard his name, and was surprised to see Officer Gordon approaching him. "Gordon?" he asked, frowning, turning to face him. "What's the matter? What're you doing here?"

"Bruce, I've got a favour to ask you," Gordon said. "You remember that guy I showed to you earlier today? That loony who called himself the Joker?"

Bruce nodded. "Sure, I remember him. Why?"

"Well, he's here."

"What?!" Wayne exclaimed. A few people turned to look at them. Wayne looked up, saw them, and put on a large, fake smile. "Gordon, you old kidder, you did _not_ take down that criminal with your bare hands!" he said, loudly enough for the onlookers to hear. All of them grinned mildly and returned to their original conversations. Wayne turned back to Gordon. "You let him go and the first place he decides to strike is my annual gala?!"

"No," Gordon said, "that's what I wanted to talk to you about. He's here undercover."

Wayne scoffed. "Like _that'll_ work," he said.

"Oh, you should see him." Gordon said, impressed. "He cleans up real nice. It's pretty amazing. - But that's not the point." He put a hand on Wayne's shoulder. "He and that girl he was paired up with are here undercover, as ambassadors of a wealthy company. I was told to come in here and tell you so you don't blow a fuse when you see 'em and call the cops or anything."

"There has to be a good reason for this, Gordon," Wayne replied, still frowning.

"There is," Gordon said. He paused, took a deep breath, then said, "We believe Crane is also here."

Wayne dropped his glass. The same group of people turned to look at him. Even Alfred turned and looked at him. Wayne looked up at all of them, hesitated, and then smiled. "Oops," he said with a friendly shrug. "I guess I've had enough for tonight!" Everyone turned back to their original conversations, and Alfred came over to clean up the broken glass. Wayne turned back to Gordon. "If he decides to spray his fear gas in here, it'll be a disaster!" he exclaimed.

Alfred stood, holding the broken glass securely in a towel. "Master Wayne," he said, "not to interrupt your conversation with Mister Gordon… but Mister Fox said he would be dropping by the party a little later to bring by his first batch of antidote."

Wayne turned to him. "Wow." he said. "That was fast. How much will he bring?"

"Well, he says he can make the antidote at about the same rate Crane can make the toxin, Sir," Alfred said, "so… it should be just enough, I think."

"Right," Wayne said. "How much later, Alfred?"

Alfred checked his watch. "I'm not sure, Sir," he said.

Wayne shook his head. "It might be too late by then. We have no idea how much of that toxin Crane was able to make."

"Not much, Sir, I wouldn't think," said Alfred. "It's only been a few hours. If you don't mind me saying so."

"You're still close with Lucius Fox?" Gordon asked, surprised.

Wayne turned and looked at him. Alfred looked up, too, and looked between the two of them. Gordon frowned. "Oh, shit. You don't mean - ?"

"No!" Wayne exclaimed, "Oh, hell no! It's not like that. It's purely _business_."

"Oh," Gordon said, nodding. "Okay."

Alfred grinned, then walked away with the broken glass.

Wayne watched him leave, then turned back to Gordon. "So what's the point of bringing in beauty and the nutcase?" he asked.

"Well," Gordon said, "we were thinking that the fastest way to catch Crane is if we - "

"Think like him. Right," Wayne said thoughtfully.

"And we couldn't just bring Napier. That would look strange," Gordon said.

"Right, they'd wonder if I booked a clown for entertainment," Wayne said.

"So we decided to bring them both in," Gordon said. "And, I mean, you wouldn't recognize either of them. It's really impressive what a little makeup - or makeup remover - can do." He turned, glanced over his shoulder. "Oh, here they come now!" he said.

Wayne looked up and his jaw dropped.

They looked stunning. She looked like a model out of a magazine, and he looked like some kind of movie star - albeit, a movie star whose plastic surgery had gone awry. He could even see through to the human that he knew every maniac had once been. He could see it here, but, try as he might, he had never been able to see Crane as anything more than a psychopath, a sociopath… a mad scientist. But, for some reason, pitting one psycho against another did not make him feel particularly safe. Napier looked fine, now… but at any given moment, he could snap and return to his persona of the Joker.

Then Wayne stiffened as Napier approached Rachel.

"Hello," he said in that strange, amused drawl, combing his hair to one side with a wry grin. "I'm Casper Dolohov, and I deal in foreign trade. Perhaps something you're interested in?"

Rachel giggled. "No, it's not really my cup of tea," she said, amused by his strange manner, and a little uncomfortable by his open approach and the strange gash in his face. "But you might want to talk to my date."

Harvey Dent turned to face Napier with that boxy smile of his. "Harvey Dent, Attorney at Law," he said, offering his hand.

Napier looked down at the hand offered him, the smile disappearing from his face, back up at the man's face, and then back at the hand. "I, uh," he started, when he was cut off by Bruce Wayne, "Mister Dolohov!"

Napier spun, relieved but confused, to see Bruce Wayne approaching him. He smiled at Napier, and when he got to him, slapped him on the back in a friendly manner. Napier twitched and hunched over with each slap on the back, his jaw locking. "I've been looking for you _everywhere_!" Wayne said. "I see you've met my friends. Come on, let's go over here and… discuss foreign trade." He steered Napier away from Rachel and Dent, then, looking over his shoulder, whispered, "Okay, we're safe now."

Napier wrenched his shoulders out of Wayne's grasp, brushing himself off as if he had been touched by something vile. "Touch me like that again and I'll _kill_ you," Napier hissed.

"Threaten to kill me again and I'll have you locked up with no chance of freedom," Wayne hissed back. He grinned at Dent and Rachel, and they turned away. Then he returned his attention to Napier. "I know why you're here," he said. "I recognize you. Officer Gordon just told me. You're here to scope out Crane, and that's the only reason. You try to divert from that, try to pull some little stunt of your own, and you'll go right back to jail."

Wayne looked up to see some people staring at them. "Ouch!" he exclaimed. "Well, that is quite a story, Casper, old buddy. I will remember not to do that in the future. Who knew that could be so dangerous! Maybe you'll remember to wear a _helmet _next time!" He laughed falsely, but it seemed to be good enough for the onlookers, who turned back to their own conversations. Wayne stopped laughing and turned back to Napier, who was staring at him with slitted eyes, as if observing an idiot.

"You're not funny," Napier said flatly.

"Yeah, well, this time the joke's on _you_," Wayne responded. "You try anything, the Gotham police department will get you… if Batman doesn't get you first."

Napier grinned. "Aww, is your boyfriend here, Mister Wayne?" he asked. Before Wayne had a chance to respond, Napier had broken away from him and walked away.

"Something to drink, miss?"

Maria jumped and turned quickly. One of the servers stood politely in front of her. "I'm fine, thank you," she replied with a forced smile, then went back to eyeing the guests for any glimpse she might catch of dark hair or the shine of glasses.

"Are you sure?" He sidled up to her elbow with a smile that made her seriously wonder if he'd spiked whatever he was trying to give her. She shook her head and turned in an effort to ignore him. He zipped around to her other side with amazing speed. She had to give him some credit for that; it was a pretty big task to move so quickly when you were carrying a tray of drinks.

"Really, we've got all sorts of stuff," he went on. "I could even make you something _special_, if you'd like."

Well, _that_ was certainly direct. She eyed him coyly and finally said, "Water?" The grin froze on his face, and his eyes darted down to the tray. In his confusion, she almost started laughing. It was the one drink he didn't have. "Right, then. I'll go get you some."

As he hopped away, she called, "I'll be right here."

She scooted immediately towards a thick part of the crowd once he was out of sight.

The phrase "like a fish out of water" never felt so appropriate. She wandered around, keeping a sharp eye out for both Crane _and_ Napier (who had slipped away while she was caught in conversation with a few judges, and who she didn't think it was safe for to be running around a party alone). She felt a sudden urge to noogie one of the millionaires here, or scream, or run outside...Instead, she sighed. Lovely alternative. She rebelliously grabbed a champagne glass from the next passing waiter and took a sip.

Alfred tossed the glass into the rubbish-bin in the kitchen area and returned to the ballroom, carrying a fresh tray of drinks. He checked his watch. Hopefully Fox would be there soon… not that he was anxious to see him or anything, but when he came, he would bring the antidote. And from what Alfred had heard, time was running out on when the antidote would be useful… plus, Crane was here already, and if he decided to release his fear toxin before Fox could arrive with the antidote…

Alfred shuddered. He did not want to think about it.

He had never met the doctor, himself, but everything he had ever heard about this shady "Crane" fellow was rather pointedly negative: he was a psychopath who took pleasure in torturing the minds of his victims, who ran an asylum so he could experiment on the inmates, and who dabbled in crime with Carmine Falcone and Ra's Al Ghul. All in all, he was not a person to be messed with. Alfred had always imagined him as a tall man, with wide shoulders, a thin face, prominent cheekbones, black hair - your average lanky, mad scientist. He almost chuckled. The maniac he had just described sounded better suited coming out of an H. P. Lovecraft story than Gotham city.

He turned and almost ran into one of the guests. "Oh, pardon me, sir," he said with a friendly, apologetic smile.

Crane raised his eyebrows at the butler, unamused. "Of course," he said slowly, taking one of the glasses off of Alfred's tray. Alfred frowned; this man had the most mesmerizing eyes of anyone he had ever seen. It was not so much attractive as… _frightening_, like something only seen in night terrors, and not in the night terrors of just children, either. Crane held the glass in front of him, just thinking. Then he turned back to Alfred. "I'm looking for Bruce Wayne," he said, considering his words. "I have something I wish to… discuss with him." He looked Alfred up and down, then locked his eyes with the butler's. "Foreign trade."

"Oh," Alfred said, trying hard to pull his gaze away from the gripping stare of the doctor, "Mister Wayne is a bit busy discussing foreign trade… as it is, sir." He swallowed, nervous. "But when he's free, I will be sure to find you and tell you… where he is. Sir." He nodded, trying to fix a nervous smile on his face, but it was difficult.

Crane nodded slowly, considering him. Then he looked away. "Well, I suppose I can be patient," he said, articulating every word. He swirled the drink in the glass, staring down into it. Then he placed it back on Alfred's tray. "I don't drink," he said, then turned and walked away.

Alfred watched him, frowning. There had been something about that man, sparingly built and soft-spoken though he was, that hinted that something was just not right. That man had bats in his belfry, and not in the Bruce Wayne way, either.

Napier sidled up to the butler and took a drink from the tray - the same one Crane had taken just moments earlier. "So, you know Mister Wayne?" he asked, trying for small talk. "What's his deal with that saucy little number over there?" he pointed to Rachel. "And what's up with her date? He got a stick up his ass the size of New Hampshire or what?"

Alfred chuckled, relieved to be free of the tension of his last visitor, and turned to face his new one. The laughed instantly stopped when he saw the deformation of the man's face, though, and he turned back around to look at the rest of the guests. "Uh, Mister Wayne and Miss Dawes - "

"Miss Dawes, is her name?" Napier asked, considering her as he swirled the liquid in his glass.

"Miss _Rachel _Dawes, actually," Alfred said. "She and Mister Wayne have been good friends since they were very young."

"Ahh, childhood sweethearts," Napier said.

"You could say that," Alfred said, "but Mister Wayne is always so busy… I s'pose Miss Dawes moved on. Her new date is - "

"Harvey Dent, Attorney at Law," Napier finished for him. "Hm, so the girlfriend goes off with some bigwig and the jilted lover…"

"Well, I wouldn't say jilted," Alfred said. "Bruce Wayne is hardly jilted by something like that."

"Bruce?" Napier asked, interested. "Bruce Wayne and Rachel Dawes. And you are…?"

"Oh, I'm Alfred, sir," he said, offering his hand to his strange new acquaintance. "I'm Mister Wayne's butler, as it were."

"Butler," Napier said, looking down at the hand. Should he take it? That would be the normal thing to do… god, there was a _reason_ he wore gloves! He reached over and gingerly took Alfred's hand, shaking it with a pained smile. "It's good to meet you… Alfred," he said. He let go of the hand, resisting the urge to shake his out, just letting it drop back to his side. "So, Alfred," he said, "any whackos around here?"

"Well," Alfred said, glancing at the strange man who had asked the question, "there was one person who came 'round here, and something about him didn't seem quite right… but I'm not one to judge, really, sir."

"Hmm," Napier said, play-frowning. "Was he about yea high?" he indicated about four inches shorter than himself. "And about as thick as a paperclip? With crazy-psycho blue eyes? Glasses? Talks _reeeeaallll sloooowww_…?"

Alfred looked at him, surprised, and then nodded. "Why… yes, sir," he said. "A friend of yours?"

Napier shrugged. "More like an _acquaintance_," he said. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go find my date. She's gone and wandered off!" He walked away from Alfred and scouted out Maria. When he finally caught sight of her, he crossed to her and pulled her away from the little cloud of people that had begun to gravitate around her - whether intentionally or not, he was not sure, but either way, he needed to talk to her now.

"Mrs. Dolohov, dearest," he said sarcastically, "we've had our first sighting. Crane is definitely in the building. You need to go alert police. I can't do it because they'll think I'm the crazy who cried Crane. But we need to get the security upped in this place." Suddenly, he paused, and a strange smile spread across his face. "Wow," he said with a bizarre kind of chuckle, "I never thought I'd see the day when those words actually came out of my mouth."

"That didn't take long," she murmured, checking her immediate surroundings as if Crane would suddenly pounce out. Now she was seeing dark hair and glasses on every other person. "Be right back, then."

She turned to leave, then looked back with raised eyebrows. "_Mrs.?_ And here I was, thinking we were just business associates." She turned on her heel and headed for the nearest door.

The officers outside took little convincing to tighten security in the ballroom. Walkie-talkies were whipped out, handguns were loaded (a precautionary step, she was assured), and locations were established for each team to station themselves. Maria stepped back inside when she saw that she wasn't needed. This sort of thing was out of her league; there were reasons she'd chosen her current profession instead of civilian protection.

Her mind was still stuck on that when she joined Napier again. "Locked and loaded, Mr. Dolohov," she said with a grin. Out of the corner of her eye she could see men in uniform slipping into the doors, tromping about in a manly fashion in an effort to make their presence known, and she rolled her eyes. _Policemen._

Policemen. Somebody had anticipated his arrival. He tried to think of who could possibly have known that he would go here, of all places… and then he saw her. Maria Goodhart. Butofcourse, she would be the one to bring the Gotham police force to thwart him. And then he saw her companion, some pretty-boy who probably advertised for soap on public television when he was not being traded between sugar daddies or dragged along to high-rise galas as arm candy… and then the companion turned his head.

Crane's brow furrowed when he saw the gash in the side of the man's face, the twisted edge of his mouth… it was impossible. That could not possibly be the man he had worked with, the lunatic who vowed to do everything in his power to bring down Batman and the goody-goodies who worked with him. What was he now, a double-agent? Perhaps he was desperate… or perhaps he was just ridiculously unprofessional and juvenile. A child to the world of crime.

Or maybe…

He watched as Napier walked away from his companion, over to a group of heavy pockets, leaving Maria very much alone once again. This was his chance… it was now or never. He approached her, making sure to keep his steps as quiet as possible, then, standing behind her, he leaned forward to her ear and whispered, "Hello, Maria. Don't turn around… and don't scream." He grinned. "I see that you brought the police force with you. But it's already too late…" He chuckled. "My toxin is already everywhere. It just needs to be… set off."

Maria could have jumped out of her skin. That soft voice was going to give her nightmares.

She looked up at a painting on the wall, careful not to turn the slightest bit; it might set Crane off. "This is starting to feel like a habit, you know," she said quietly, eyeing a group of politicians nearby. "Unfortunately, they already know you're here."

She paused a moment, then plowed on. "And we already have enough antidote to keep people calm." She couldn't detect a trace of a quiver in her voice; maybe he wouldn't call her bluff. In the meantime, she glared frantically at Napier's back, praying that he had some sort of sixth sense and would turn around.

Crane chuckled softly. "You might, but you have no way of knowing who has already been affected," he said. "You see, I had such little time to create another batch of toxin that I was only able to create a decent amount… not to suit my own preferences, but there's little that can be done about that." He paused, breathed, then went on, "The toxin, in its base form, is a liquid… it doesn't become a gas until heat is applied… as you probably figured out from the microwave emitter incident."

He gave her a moment to think about that, then continued, "Wayne Tower has a central air conditioning unit. It controls the entire building… and thankfully, because Mister Wayne is such a considerate owner, he made it a very efficient system." He checked his watch. "When I turn up the heat, it will be a matter of less than ten minutes before everyone in here starts to sweat. And then, it will be only about five more minutes before the toxin hits their nervous system." He grinned. "Oh, hadn't you guessed by now, Maria?" he asked. "The toxin is in the drinks… every glass that leaves that kitchen is spiked with toxin. Just a little bit… but that's all it takes."

He looked up, watching Napier, who was still busy with the group of people… perhaps he was looking for Crane. Crane could not resist a chuckle. He checked his watch again, then looked up, his blue eyes searching the ceiling in an arch. "The heat is scheduled to turn on… any second now." he said. Then he looked back at her. "So much for your antidote." Then he turned, walked away, and vanished into the crowd.

Napier turned away from the group of people he had been talking to and approached Maria. "No sign of him," he said, frowning. "I've been asking everyone, but they don't know where he went… a couple of people have seen him around, though." He brought his glass to his lips, hesitated, and brought it away again. "Maybe we should ask Bruce Wayne," he said. "He's probably seen Crane… I would think Crane would tend to drift to him, of all people. Since he's in charge here." He paused, thinking about this, then started to bring the glass to his lips again. Then he stopped, lowering it. "Hey," he said, "is it getting hot in here, or is it me?"

Somewhere in the middle of Crane's explanation, her lungs had gotten out of control. She gulped and leaned against a nearby wall, taking deep, somewhat ragged breaths. It didn't do a damn thing. Her heartbeat was spiking out of control, and the room was starting to spin. Now was _not_ the time for a panic attack!

Thankfully, Napier finally walked over (_too damn late, of course_). Her eyes grew wider watching him toy with his drink until she finally slapped it out of his hand. The glass shattered on the floor. "For chrissakes, don't _drink_ that!" she said, voice a few octaves higher than usual. Her behavior drew a few curious glances, but she didn't have time to apologize to the nice moneybags. "Crane...Crane spiked the drinks," she said, forcing the words out. "He cranked up the heat, and the toxin will dissolve into the bloodstream. It'll will affect anyone who drank one of the spiked...oh, shit..." She'd had some champagne.

Oh, well. "We've got to get people out of here, or something..." She paused and tried some deep breathing exercises. The panic attacks when she was younger had started out just like this, but they usually got worse, much worse. Maybe she could catch it before she completely lost it, that might be good.

"You're having a meltdown," Napier said. "Don't think about it, you're going to be okay." Without thinking, his hands went to her shoulders; her heavy, frantic breathing had triggered something in his head. "Shh," he said, trying to be soothing, "it's going to be okay… don't worry about it… don't think about it, you're going to be just fine…" He started gently kneading her shoulders, nestling his face into her hair. "Calm down, Kitty, you'll be fine… you're going to be just fine, I promise…"

Wait.

Kitty?

He stepped back, his hands jumping from her shoulders as if he had just received an electric shock. He stared at her in shock for a moment, then wiped his hands on his jacket and quickly turned around and began walking away. Just walk, don't look back. Just keep walking. Jesus Christ, it was getting hot in there. He grabbed a drink from a passing waiter and pressed it to his forehead, trying to regain his nerves… and whatever ragged semblance of sanity he could muster for the time being.

He approached Officer Gordon, who turned to him, stern. "What's the scoop on Crane?" he asked.

Napier brought the drink away from his forehead and indicated it. "He's spiked it," he said.

Gordon eyed him warily, confused. "He spiked your drink?"

"No, he spiked _all_ the drinks," Napier said, losing patience. "And he's turning up the heat… it'll only be a little bit before everyone starts to panic. You need to get everyone out."

"Shit!" Gordon exclaimed. He ran past Napier, waving his gun in the air and calling into his walkie-talkie, "We've got a situation! We've got to clear the building!"

He ran out into the middle of a group of people, panting. "People, there's something going on and you all need to clear out!" he said. "Sorry, sorry," he said to the grumbling patrons, "I know, we're terribly sorry… but we really need to clear the building!"

Napier watched his sad attempts to clear out the present company, who were moving sluggishly and resentfully towards the exit. At this snail's pace, they should all be out by the following morning… and in a state of panic. He sighed, then glanced over his shoulder towards the wall of the ballroom, where a small, glass box caught his eye. He moved across to it, considered it, then, seeing how little progress Gordon was making, clenched his hand into a fist and broke it. He hissed in pain as the glass sliced up his hand, but reached in, anyways, and pulled the fire alarm.

The sirens began wailing immediately. If people had not been eager to get out of the building before, they certainly were now. People started shouting and running, rampant, tearing past one another to get out of the building. It was almost as bad as if Crane's toxin had had a chance to kick in… but for Napier, it was worse. Much worse.

The instant the wailing, screeching fire alarm started, Napier froze, staring, wide-eyed, up at the ceiling. The alarm bore into his skull, drilling deeper into his psyche with every blaring note. His hands started to shake, and he looked down at his hand, and saw the blood… the frightened patrons screamed… the police sirens wailed outside… then the sprinkler system kicked in. That was the final straw. Napier staggered back against the wall of the ballroom, his face lifted to the water system, a mad smile starting to split his marred face.

Then, heaving for breath, he started to chuckle, and then to cackle, and finally, let out a shrieking, psychotic laugh, and turned, disappearing out one of the side doors.

Just about everyone had escaped the room by now, and just a few last, unlucky, wet patrons were hurrying out. Bruce Wayne stood blankly in the middle of the ballroom, holding out a hand and watching as the water from the sprinkler system splashed into his palm. His suit was drenched, but he was not moving to get out of the ballroom. As far as he knew, there had been no fire, there had been no attack, and there had been no sustainable mass panic - nothing that constituted breaking out the Batsuit, anyways. This was probably Crane's bright idea of mass hysteria. He sighed.

Why did these kinds of things always happen at his parties?

"Bruce," Gordon said, trying to shade his eyes from the sprinklers. "Come on, let's get out of here. We'll call in a cleanup crew to fix it."

Bruce looked at him. "Did you catch Crane?" he asked.

Gordon hesitated, then shook his head. "There were too many people moving at once," he said. "We couldn't keep track of everybody. He probably passed under the radar."

Wayne looked up at the raining ceiling. "That figures," he said. "Do we know who pulled the alarm?"

"Crane?" Gordon guessed. "You know about as much as I do, Bruce. We're still trying to figure out how he managed to get the toxin in the drinks… if that's what really happened. That's what Napier told us."

"Yeah, where _is_ Napier?" Wayne asked, looking back at Gordon.

Gordon shrugged. "Probably still with his date," he said. "Come on, let's get out of here." He turned and started back towards the doors of the ballroom, and Wayne followed, damp and somewhat discouraged by his string of failure parties. All chance of a normal life had stopped the instant he had adopted the bat symbol and poised himself as the epitome of good. Now badduns of all sorts sought him out to pick a fight. But why would they go after Bruce Wayne as well?

He followed Gordon outside into the chilly night air. People were dispersing into their cars and calling on taxis to take them to their various homes or hotel rooms for the night. There was no doubt about it, this gala had been an absolute disaster. He looked around… no sign of Crane. As if he would be that lucky. No sign of Napier, either, which made him more than just a little nervous.

"Well, we should close up shop for the night," Gordon said, indicating the double-doors. "Lock up and see if we can't get a cleaning crew in by morning."

Wayne nodded, and two policemen moved forward to close the heavy double-doors. As soon as they were finished, they stepped back, staring at the doors. Gordon and Wayne froze, also staring at the doors, not believing what they were seeing.

Painted across the double-doors in bright red, wet blood, was the unmistakeable grin of the Joker.


	7. Chapter Six

It had taken about an hour to get the stupid police officers away from her door. They had drugs, they said, stuff that could calm her nerves (she didn't do drugs). No, not like that, just some mild depressants, more over-the-counter things than serious stuff, it was actually pretty routine with the police (it didn't matter, _no drugs_). Well, at least they should stay with her a bit to make sure she was all right (really, she was fine). She didn't _look_ fine (well, then she'd _be_ fine). They'd gone through several cycles of this before she finally slammed the door in their faces with a forceful "thanks, I'm FINE." She hadn't even explained the situation to Officer Gordon. There would probably be some strict reprisals for this.

Maybe she'd feel guilty about it later.

For now, she was a bit preoccupied. The covers of her bed were thrown over her head and tucked under her feet. She was curled up with her back against the wall, eyes closed. She'd never been so thankful for the invention of music; her earphones kept outside noise away and were delivering calming rhythms to her stressed brain. Ever so slowly, her breathing and heartbeat were calming down, which gave her room to think about her situation. Namely, the fact that two psychotic potential killers apparently had reasons remember who she was.

She could move, out of this apartment or even out of Gotham. She could change her name. Weren't there protection agencies that dealt with situations like this? Or was that only for people who didn't have to work hard to pay their rent for some slummy apartment each month? She shook her head and focused only on the music. The rest would maybe work itself out.

This time it took almost an hour to cool down her system. When the shakes finally stopped, she threw the blankets off of her head and stared out the window across from her bed. It was pretty late...or early, depending on how you thought about it. And pretty quiet for Gotham; a few lone cars zipped down the road much too quickly, and some stragglers moped around the dark streets, but it was all covered by a sort of stillness. It felt like the city was in shock, too.

She snorted.

The first thing tomorrow morning, she'd go in to the police station and let Gordon know what happened. Then she would tell him, _very clearly_, that she didn't want to be involved any more. She'd had quite enough of getting involved in Gotham's shady dealings. It was time she started living a more normal life.

She nodded to herself and booted up her computer. There was no chance she'd get a wink of sleep. Might as well finish that book.

"This is bad." Bruce Wayne frowned, looking around at the wreckage of the Gotham police station.

The place had been torn apart. Desks were overturned, light fixtures were smashed, papers were everywhere. Little fires flickered in corners amongst the desks. A phone lay buzzing frantically off its hook. A policeman came forward, grim-faced. "All of his effects and a whole arsenal of other contraband and confiscated weaponry are gone," he reported.

"Damnit!" Gordon exclaimed, stamping his foot in frustration. "Why did we have to bring so much of the force to that one location tonight? Of all nights! There was no one here to guard the station!"

Bruce shook his head, sighing, as he picked up a stack of singed papers that had spilled out of a manila file and let them fall to the floor again. "It was a bad idea to trust him," he said.

"How were we to know that he would snap like that?!" Gordon exclaimed, almost pulling out his hair in exasperation. "He seemed like he was doing well, all night long, he seemed to be doing just fine…"

"Until the fire alarm went off," Wayne said, his brow furrowing. He glanced over as a desk light sparked with electricity, its shattered bulb smoking. "And the sprinkler system. Do you think that triggered it?"

Gordon shrugged. "Crane could've unintentionally triggered something in Napier's memory with the fire alarm," he said. "I just wish we knew _what_… that would make it so much easier to track him down. And if only we knew something about Crane's past, that might be helpful in finding him, too."

Wayne glanced over at him. "You think we'll find them by investigating their pasts?" he asked.

Gordon shrugged, then sighed. "I'm running out of ideas, Bruce," he said, "I'm at the end of my rope. We've never had this much trouble before. I mean, first there was Falcone, then there was the incident with Crane's fear toxin, and Ra's Al Ghul…"

Wayne nodded, "Right. You need Batman."

Gordon picked up an overturned mug of pencils. "It would be helpful," he said. "But Gotham city police department can't count on Batman forever. One of these days, Batman won't be around anymore."

"Batman will always protect Gotham," Wayne said, frowning.

Gordon turned to him. "It's good to know you've got faith in our local hero," he said, "but these are harsh times. I wouldn't be surprised if he gets killed one of these days… or corrupted. It's a cruel system."

Wayne shook his head, "Batman would never succumb to the corruption of the streets of Gotham."

Gordon shrugged. "Killed, then," he said.

Wayne watched him for a moment. "You've got a bleak view of Gotham," he finally said.

Gordon turned to him with a sad grin. "Can you blame me?" he asked.

Wayne nodded in agreement, then turned around and started walking away. "Where are you going?" asked Gordon.

"I'm going to have a talk with Batman," said Wayne, "and see if he can't find out something about these guys that they don't want us to know."

. . .

It was peaceful on Maria's side of town. That was a change; usually Gotham was so busy and loud, but here, time seemed to stand still.

Perhaps that was because he was still thinking about the gala and the police station. Anything would seem peaceful after that.

Batman peered into the window of the author and saw, to his surprise, that she was still awake. That was odd; usually people were asleep at this time of night, especially after such a taxing day. But leave it to the more artistically inclined to go against the norm. He watched her for a long moment, then quietly slid open her window and slipped inside. If he were lucky, she would not notice him and he would be able to approach her without too much of a ruckus being caused.

He had been told her name at the police station, before she, her male friend, and himself had been showed to Napier's enclosure, and he thought she would not think twice about it if Batman knew her real name. Batman was rumoured to know everything, after all. He stepped out of the shadows towards her, paused, and then addressed her, "Maria. Please, don't get up. I just have a few questions I need to ask you about… the Joker and Doctor Crane."

He took another step towards her, a little further into the light, letting her know that he was a friend - he was her friendly neighbourhood Batman. "I need to know everything you can tell me about them," he said. "It is essential you tell me everything you know so we can catch those two lunatics and put them behind bars… for good."

"SHI-" Her hand, still holding the pen she'd been chewing on for no particular reason, was poised in the air to stab whoever had snuck into her room. She was halfway out of her chair, eyes searching the semi-dark room frantically. Then she paused. "The hell...?"

With a huge sigh, she flopped back into her spinning desk chair and dropped the pen next to her computer. "Batman. Can't you just walk into a place like any other normal per...?" She stopped herself there. Hah. Stupid question.

He really didn't have to explain why he was there. The second she saw that stupid bat emblem on his chest she'd gotten a shrinking feeling. He wanted information. He wanted her to get involved again. Oh, what the hell; she _was_ feeling a bit suicidal today.

Her tone took on a sharper, angry edge. "If you're looking for their stories, you're in luck," she said, fooling with her computer for a moment before a document flashed onto the screen. "I have everything Crane told me regarding his history right here." She ignored the words and looked over at the dark figure a few feet away. "I can print you out a copy if you need it. I...I didn't write Napier's out yet." She paused for a moment. She hadn't really planned to put his into the book, which was strange. Maybe it was because he's become a real person, no longer just some psycho behind a window that she could study and write about like it was nothing.

She finally turned the chair to fully face Batman. So this was the dark crusader, defender of Gotham City. He was a bit shorter than she remembered from the theater. Then again, she'd been under the influence of Crane's toxin. It was hard to imagine that a real person was under that disguise.

"What sort of things are you looking for?" she finally asked, looking around the apartment for Max. That lazy animal had never been a good watch dog...sure enough, he was laying on her bed in the mess of blankets she'd created earlier, silently twitching as he chased some squirrel in a dream. Her eyes softened at the sight of the animal, and she took some of the venom out of her voice. "And did something happen?"

Batman took the pages from her and thumbed through a few of them, then dropped them to his side. "This is helpful," he said. "But I don't think even this will be enough. It's good literature, but literature never caught a killer." He stared at her, considering her. It was so late… or early, depending on how you looked at it. She was already awake, and did not look like she would be going to bed anytime soon. His brow furrowed a bit. This was going to be a big step.

"I'll cut you a deal," he said. "You're writing a book on Gotham's villains. I'm trying to catch them. You need information for your book… I need information, too. But I have something you don't have… and if I'm not mistaken, something you would be willing to do just about anything for." He paused. Where was he going with this? This could prove to be the most disastrous move in his entire career. But, taking the plunge, he said, "I'm willing to offer you a trade: you help me find these two… and I'll let you interview me.

"It will have to be a short one, mind you," he said quickly, indicating her with the stack of papers he held in his hand. He had totally forgotten he was holding them. "And you can't ask questions about my identity or any of the people I care about. But other than that, you have free reign to ask me whatever questions you wish." He thought about it for a moment. "For every clue you help me with that takes us one step closer to finding these two, I'll let you ask me a question about myself. This interview may take days, if not weeks - but only if we're very unlucky. The worst case scenario is that we have to follow a trail of destruction to find the two of them."

Just then, the sound of an explosion ripped through the small apartment and a flash of light illuminated the room they stood in. Batman jumped slightly at the unexpected sound, and turned to see what had made the noise. On the skyline of Gotham city, what had once been an old train station, abandoned for a few years now but still a significant structure, had erupted into a giant fireball, which turned into a pillar of smoke. Fire crackled mercilessly along the street, and the train station now existed as nothing more than a flattened pile of unrecognizable rubble.

Batman stared at the wreckage for a moment, then turned back to Maria. "You can ask your first question now," he said.

Maria barely jumped when the train station went kaput; there was only so much room in her head for surprises, and she'd had plenty of them in the last few hours. Batman's deal, of course, was the most recent one, and probably the best.

This felt eerily similar to something that had happened a week ago, but she chose not to think about that. Instead, she worked on concealing the grin forming on her face. An interview. With the superhero of Gotham. If this didn't make her book a bestseller, what would? Who didn't want to know the deep, dark secrets of the reclusive bat who beat up criminals?

Too bad the guy didn't know she would have given him the information on Crane and Napier for free. Ah, well, what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. "Sounds fine to me."

So, the first question was hers. Might as well start out with something _everyone_ wanted to know. She flicked the "on" switch on her tape recorder, conveniently placed beside her keyboard. "Why bother with Gotham? You could have just let it go to the dumps with the whole toxin incident a few weeks back. It's not like you're getting much of a reward for this; most people think you're crazy or some sort of justice-obsessed vigilante." She looked out the window, where the night sky was still lit up by the fire a few blocks down. Sirens were beginning to wail, heading in that direction.

"I could have, but what kind of person would that have made me?" he asked grimly. "Gotham is my home. If I were to just give up on my home because it seems hopeless, then who would stand up for it? What chance does Gotham have when the good people do nothing?" He almost grinned here; he had not meant to quote Rachel Dawes, but her sage words had come unintentionally to his lips. He paused, then went on, "I don't need a reward for what I do. I do it because the only reward I seek is the bettering of Gotham city."

His eyes went to her tape recorder. Hopefully the way he was using his lower register, his gravely mask he had decided on using over his normal voice, would prevent her from recognizing his voice as that of Bruce Wayne's. Somehow he knew that this woman and Bruce Wayne, the enigmatic do-good-ing millionaire, were not yet through being pushed together to solve the dilemma of two of Gotham's most frustrating - and dangerous - criminals to date.

"As for being crazy," he said, "there isn't a person in Gotham who hasn't been called that at one point or another. People will say anyone is crazy just for living here, because of all the things that go on here that no one wants to think about. Crime in Gotham has turned it into a place that the outside world thinks of as a slum, with its people just waiting to be killed off by one another. Having people like Crane and Napier here are not helping one bit, either."

His eyes returned to her face. "Now, you should probably get some sleep." he told her. "You want to be alert. Who knows what kinds of things you might run into tomorrow?" He grinned at her, tightly, then moved back to her window, lifted it, and disappeared out of it into the night.

He had to go investigate that explosion.

Oh, good lord.

What a melodramatic individual.

Maria turned off the tape recorder with a regretful sigh. Too bad she hadn't been able to get more out of the masked crusader. There was the promise of another interview, though, so she could still be a bit hopeful. She quickly wrote down what he'd said word-for-word from the recorder, yawned, saved the document, printed a hard copy just in case, and yawned again. Her bed was starting to look really, really comfortable, albeit a bit fuzzy.

So he did it because it was morally right, she thought as she washed her face in the bathroom sink. By that way of thinking, _everyone_ in Gotham would be wearing capes and jumping out windows. She grinned and scrubbed her cheeks. Everyone that was morally upright, that is. Which meant that no one in Gotham was morally upright but this Batman character. Her face now rubbed clean by a towel, she inspected her face in the mirror. That was a pretty harsh way of looking at reality.

She climbed into bed and yanked the covers up to her chin, registering faintly that she still wore her jeans and t-shirt from the movies and at the same time not particularly caring. The room faded out quickly to black, and she slept without a dream.

. . .

It was two days before Gordon saw fit to call Maria again. Of course, it had been two days since they had stumbled across any kind of clue that would lead them even an inch closer to finding the two psychopaths who had been accidentally set loose upon Gotham. The mysterious Batman had brought this clue to Gordon's attention, and had added that he had spent over a day tracking it down. Gordon had been relieved and grateful for Batman's help, but could not figure out his next instructions:

"I would usually do this, but I think, for this one, it would be best if you got hold of Maria. She'll know what to do."

So Gordon had sorted through all of his hopelessly messed-up papers until he finally came across her number, and he had sat down at the only working phone in the station - some electrician had gotten one of the phone jacks to work, and so the station had this one working phone - and called Maria. The station was looking a lot better since Napier tore it apart, but there was still work to be done.

He tapped a pencil against the edge of his desk, listening to the phone ringing and waiting for someone on the other end to pick up the phone. When nobody did, he frowned as he received her answering machine. "Maria, this is Officer Gordon," he said. "Sorry about that incident at Bruce Wayne's gala, and I'm sorry I haven't gotten in contact with you sooner… we've just been given a rather puzzling piece of evidence that we think might be linked to either Crane or Napier, but none of us here at the police station can quite figure it out, so I thought we might give you a call. I also got in contact with Bruce Wayne, and he's going to come down and take a look as well, but we were hoping you would come along. If you wouldn't mind stopping by for a little bit to see if you can help us out, that would be great. All right, hoping to see you later, Maria, bye."

He hung up the phone and sighed, tapping the pencil thoughtfully against the side of the desk. "Well, isn't this just the most messed-up thing Gotham has ever seen?" he mused to himself, then got up from his desk. The only thing to do now was wait.

Gordon was too good of a cop, and too good of a person. It was making Maria feel very self-conscious.

She sat in her desk chair, turned to face the answering machine where Gordon's voice had just petered out. The new draft of her book was open before her on her computer screen. After several minutes of staring, she finally turned back to her desk and laced her fingers together under her chin.

Batman's words echoed around in her head. "Gotham is my home. If I were to just give up on my home because it seems hopeless, then who would stand up for it?" A pretty damn good question. But she was just some ordinary woman who wanted nothing to do with this! An interview and a night at the movies had involved her with two of Gotham's most dangerous criminals to date. She sighed and stood up, cracking her knuckles in a way that made her dog look up.

"Max, I'm heading out for a bit," she told him with a swift pat on his head.

A few minutes of mental prep were all she allowed herself before she grabbed her keys and went out the door. God only knew what she'd find down at the station.

Hah. God. Man, she was _really_ losing it.

Wayne pulled up to the police station and parked his Lamborghini in the front lot, then got out and let himself in through the front doors, which had been fixed. Neither one hung loose off its hinges now. He looked around at the station with an approving nod; it was not back to normal, but it was not a catastrophe. He brushed off his suit a bit as he approached Gordon. "You asked me to come here?" he said.

Gordon turned when he heard Bruce Wayne's voice. "Yes!" he said, "We just got the strangest thing dropped off here by Batman. I was hoping you could help us figure it out…?"

"Shouldn't we wait a bit?" asked Wayne. "For Maria to get here?"

"Oh, right, right," Gordon said, sitting back down. He paused, shaking his head. "You know, it's the weirdest thing," he said. "Usually, we can always figure out what Batman brings us. I mean, most of the time it's pretty clear, or he makes it pretty clear, but this time…" He shrugged, sighing. "None of us have any idea what this is. Batman seemed pretty convinced it had something to do with one of them, but… I can't figure it out."

Wayne shrugged in response. "Maybe Batman got a tip," he said. "Maybe he wanted you to go straight to the source, because he did not fully understand it, himself."

Gordon glanced over at him. "You think so?" he asked. Then he turned back. "Huh."

Well, the station certainly looked much better than it had a few days ago. Maria couldn't say the same about the officers inside; everyone looked tired, harried, and more than a bit confused.

And, surprise surprise, Gordon and Wayne were waiting for her. She joined them with a mild smile and a curious look towards Wayne. She really didn't understand his involvement in the case. He was some big-shot billionaire; what did he have to gain from working with the police to catch criminals? Weird; he seemed to be of the same mindset as Batman. Maybe public concern was all the rage for moneybags nowadays.

Now she was hoping that this "evidence" Gordon had mentioned on the phone wasn't bad news. "Got your call," she told him with another glance around the station. From the inside, it didn't look quite as polished as it used to. Papers were still scattered, and people scurried about in a sort of panic. She turned back to Gordon. "What sort of evidence were you talking about?" _And how the hell can I help with it?_ she wanted to add, but held off. There was no reason to bite the man's head off. He looked tired enough as it was.

"Oh, hey, Maria," Gordon said, looking up and seeing her. He was a little flustered; he had not meant to be so informal with her. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, uh, if you'll both just come this way…" he said, getting up from his seat and starting towards the back of the police department.

Wayne turned and offered Maria a tight, polite grin. "Ladies first," he said, indicating after Gordon.

"We found something that we think might be able to help us with our current problem," Gordon said as he led them through the Gotham police station. "It was the strangest coincidence that Batman even found it… no traceable link that we know of to either one of the two lunatics we're looking for, but…" He paused, opening the last door. "Well, here, let me show you." he said. He led them into the adjoining room, and as he did so, a woman who stood in the room turned around to face them.

The woman was petite, with a sweet, child-like face, mousy brown hair, and wide, innocent dull-blue eyes. She seemed fearful, but she met the eyes of everyone who had gathered around her, as if trying to read into them simply by looking into their eyes. She did not seem to be doing a very good job, as she still looked just as confused as ever.

"We asked her if she remembered anything in her past that would be of any help to us," Gordon told Wayne and Maria.

"And does she?" asked Wayne.

Gordon shook his head. "She doesn't remember anything before her daughter's birth." he said.

"Daughter…?" asked Wayne. He looked over at the woman. She stared at him for a moment, then, from behind her, a rosy-cheeked little girl peeked out and looked up at him with intelligent, beautiful brown eyes, curious, but not afraid. A cascade of honey ringlets framed her face. Wayne looked a bit surprised, then turned back to Gordon. "Has she got a name, anything?" Wayne asked.

Gordon nodded. "We couldn't find any information on her, no papers or anything, but she knows her name and her daughter's name, too."

"How old is her daughter?" Wayne stared at the pretty little girl, who stared right back. She really was a darling little thing.

"Five years old," Gordon answered. "Sharp as a tack, too. You wouldn't want to mess with her, she's a little firecracker."

Wayne approached the two of them. The woman took a step back, afraid, but Wayne smiled at her and she loosened up a bit, staring at him. The little girl looked between her mother and Bruce Wayne, and finally settled on staring at Wayne. Wayne smiled at her. "Hello," he said. "What's your name?"

The little girl looked at her mother, who hesitated, and then nodded. Then the little girl turned back to Wayne. "Jeannie Rose," she said.

Wayne smiled. "Jeannie Rose? That's a pretty name." Then he turned his attention to the mother, who was staring at her daughter. "And you, ma'am? What's your name?"

The woman looked up in surprise at being addressed. "M-me?" she stuttered. She hesitated, not sure whether or not she felt comfortable giving her name, then seemed to decide Wayne was able to be trusted. She swallowed, trying to get up her courage, and answered quietly,

"Kitty."


	8. Chapter Seven

"Kit...?

KITTY?"

Maria clapped a hand over her mouth. She really hadn't meant to shout. She could do nothing more than stare at the woman. "B-but you're Napier's...he said you...what the...?"

She paused a minute to collect herself, staring openly at the woman. They seemed to be close to the same age, but there was no other comparison between them. As short as she was, Maria stood several inches taller than Kitty, who looked like she could make a nice career as a dancer. Maria took the emptiness behind her blue eyes as amnesia; that would explain what Gordon had said about her lack of memory.

Maria's gaze shifted to the adorable little girl. It was unnerving seeing Napier's brown eyes and honey-blonde hair on a little girl, but it definitely fit the conclusion she was coming to. She looked back up at Wayne and Gordon.

"That's...that's incredible. Kitty was the name of Napier's wife." She paused, finally catching the blip in the story. "But he said you _died_," she told Kitty in a very confused tone.

"Napier's wife?!" Gordon exclaimed, just as surprised as Maria, if not more. "What - wait a minute, Napier had a wife?! Good god!" He put a hand to his head, overwhelmed. "The plot thickens," he moaned.

Kitty's brow furrowed as she stared at Maria. "I'm sorry, do I know you?" she asked. She decided to ignore the strangeness of someone knowing her name almost as well as she did, and went on, "I don't remember anyone named Napier. The last thing I remember is waking up in this hospital… I was about seven or eight months pregnant with Jeannie Rose at the time, and so they decided it would be best if they tried to save her… Well, I lived, too, surprisingly… then they started talking to me about someone named Jack…"

"Jack Napier," Gordon said, starting to pace, still somewhat in his own little world of self-pity. "Jack Napier's wife, and we didn't know it! Goddamn it…"

"Please!" Kitty said, reaching to cover the ears of Jeannie Rose. Jeannie Rose just looked at Gordon in interest. The offending words did not seem to affect her at all.

Gordon looked up, surprised. "Oh, I'm very sorry," he said, "I'll try to watch my language."

Kitty nodded and let go of Jeannie Rose's ears, then paused, her dull blue eyes straying. She shook her head. "I don't know anyone named Jack," she said. "They said I'd had head trauma and I had to get stitches, and I believed them, because I felt the stitches… but I didn't feel like there was anything wrong with me besides that." She looked back up at Maria. "And they asked me about someone named Jack." she repeated. "Jack Napier, like you said… But I didn't know anyone by that name." Her look turned to one of interest. "Do you know Jack Napier?" she asked.

"It's possible," said Wayne, putting his hand to his chin thoughtfully, "that they told him she was dead because they did not want him to have the pain of knowing… she didn't remember him."

"Didn't remember who? - Do I know you?" Kitty asked, looking over at Wayne. "I'm sorry, but I feel that this is an invasion of my personal life, and my rights as an individual."

"Please calm down, Miss Smith," Gordon said, "this is just something that Gotham police really needs right now. Please try to cooperate as much as possible and we'll see if we can do anything to accommodate you."

Kitty stared at him. "All right, Officer," she finally said, quietly. She turned her eyes back to Maria. "Is that all you wanted to know?" she asked.

Jeannie Rose stepped out from behind her mother and walked over to Maria, her hands clasped behind her back, staring up at the novelist. "I'm Jeannie Rose," she said. "My mommie says I haven't got any daddy, but I don't think that's true. _Everybody's_ got a daddy."

"Jeannie Rose, come back here," Kitty said, frowning nervously. "Come on, you shouldn't go away from mommie. We don't know these people."

Jeannie Rose glanced back at her mother, then turned back to Maria, ignoring her. "I bet even _you've_ got a daddy, don't you?" she asked. "I bet he's a nice man. I bet my daddy's a nice man, too." She paused a moment, looked away, then looked back at Maria. "Do you know my daddy?" she asked.

Maria frowned. It made some sort of sense to not tell someone that a loved one didn't remember them, but that just didn't seem fair. What if contact with Napier had sparked a memory, or even forced Kitty out of amnesia altogether? This made things a bit more complicated, too. They couldn't just offer to have Napier and this woman meet and hope that it would revert Napier to sanity; they had nothing to prove it was really her, just her looks.

She finally looked at Kitty with sympathy. She could tell that they were overstepping their bounds with this woman; she didn't seem to have any desire to remember. But they had to know. "No, I'm sorry. You don't know me at all." She glanced at Jeannie Rose. "I know...I've met Jack Napier. He told me that you two used to be...involved." She paused, and reached back through her memory for details from Napier's story. "If you don't mind me asking, do you have any other scars or marks, besides the stitches? Burns, maybe?"

She looked again at Jeannie Rose. The little girl's gaze was seriously unnerving her. Not only did it perfectly match her father's, but it was so clear and calculating (even for a child) that it reminded her of...

Stop that. This was bordering on obsessiveness.

"Umm…" Kitty thought on her inquiry for a moment, looking half-interestedly at her arm, as if the answer would appear there and she could read it off. "Well, I do have a couple of scars, but I don't know where they're from…" She rolled up her sleeve and showed one, a small scar on her shoulder. "I'm not sure where that's from, though," she said, letting the sleeve back down. "I also have a birthmark, but I can't show it to you… it's in a rather inconvenient spot." She blushed a bit. "And what I think is a burn mark… here," she showed her wrist. It looked like a common burn from a stove or oven. "But that's about it. Why? Are you from Missing Persons?"

Jeannie Rose returned to her mother's side and tugged on her skirt. "Who's Jack Napier?" she asked.

Kitty shook her head and picked up the little girl. "I don't know, honey," she said. "Maybe these people will be able to tell us." She looked back up at Maria. "I don't know anyone by the name of Jack Napier," she said. "But I don't remember anything before five years ago, so it's possible that I might have known someone by that name at one time…" She frowned slightly. "How involved did he say we were?" she asked, balancing Jeannie Rose on her hip. "Friends? Were we dating?"

Wayne cracked an involuntary smile. "You could say that," he said.

Kitty shook her head. "I haven't been involved with anyone since Jeannie Rose was born… I wouldn't expect anyone I once dated to suddenly come looking for me after all this time." She pushed a lock of curly hair out of Jeannie Rose's eyes, staring at her daughter. "I just wish I knew who Jeannie Rose's father was," she said with a slight sigh. "Hopefully he's a nice man… not one of those nutcases you always hear about on the news. That would be just terrible."

She turned back to Maria. "They gave me therapy, after Jeannie Rose was born, but it didn't do any good. They said the head trauma was most likely irreversible." She glanced over at Gordon and Wayne, who were watching her thoughtfully. "But, then again, you never know… one of these days, it might all just come flooding back to me." She shrugged, looking back at her daughter. "If it hadn't been for Jeannie Rose, I would have been sent to Arkham because of my head trauma. As it is, we had been living in the care of the hospital until just recently. They finally decided that we were ready to be sent out into the wide world… and then we got swooped up by this _bat_ character."

"Batman," Jeannie Rose said with a smile.

"Apparently," said Kitty. "He took us here and told us that we should talk to someone named Maria, because she would help us figure out something about our past… _my_ past," she said. "But after that, all there was, was talk about this _Jack Napier_ fellow… I haven't heard that name in years. It was all very confusing." She turned to Maria. "I assume you're Maria," she said, "but I just don't know what he was talking about when he said you would help me figure out something about my past, and Jeannie Rose's…"

She looked back at her daughter, who stared at her. "You have such beautiful brown eyes," Kitty said. "I bet you got those from your father." She sighed. "If only I could remember what he looked like…"

"He's tall, pretty well-built..." Maria tried, then cut herself off. She'd been about to babble something about green hair and clown makeup. Like _that_ would go over well with Kitty. She didn't seem to want to hear that her ex-husband was any sort of criminal. "He...does have the same hair and eye color as your daughter," she added, thinking while she spoke.

Well, the birthmark, scar, and burn might be good for identification. She shook her head and sighed. This was far more complicated than she'd thought. Shove this lady in Napier's face and he'd either run, shoot something, or both. It wasn't like they had a messenger they could send to him to explain the situation, and besides, he wouldn't believe whoever they sent.

A conflict suddenly erupted at the front of the station. "I said get the fuck _off_, you bastard!" a cracking voice said, soon followed by two yelps of pain. Moments later, a young boy sprinted into the back room through the open door.

He seemed to be about thirteen, with messy black hair that ran rampant to his earlobes and dark eyes to match it. They looked about frantically for a moment, before he caught and composed himself with a quick shake of his leg. He cleared his throat and announced, "I've got a message from the Joker." He eyeballed Gordon with a pertinent stare and added, "Teach your fuckin' guard dogs to fight better, or they'll get their asses handed to them by every punk on the street. I didn't take five seconds."

Despite the kid's tough words, two policemen, each one holding an apparently injured arm or leg, came limping to the door. They too looked to Gordon. He called the shots around here, after all.

Kitty frowned at the boy, turning away, slightly, as if angling her body that way would protect her daughter from the harmful language. "Does no one have a moral compass around here?" she asked, a bit exasperated.

"Sorry, ma'am," Gordon apologized again, "we don't know how this little punk got in… we'll take care of it." He moved forward and grabbed the boy by the arm, starting to drag him out of the station, but,

"Wait!" Kitty stared at the boy. "The Joker?" she asked, readjusting Jeannie Rose on her hip. "Who's the Joker?"

"A nutcase. Nothing that concerns you," Wayne waved off the question.

This did not seem to calm Kitty at all. "There's a psychopath free on the streets?" she asked, turning to Gordon with a slight look of panic in her dull eyes. "Well, you have to stop him! Can't you do anything about it?"

"We're trying, ma'am," Gordon reassured her. "It's just not that easy. That's why we brought you in. We thought you might be able to help."

Kitty shook her head. "I don't know anything about any Joker," she reassured him. "And I certainly don't want to be a part of a team that's chasing after a psychopath." She nervously combed a few strands of Jeannie Rose's hair behind her ears. Jeannie Rose just stared at her mother, saying nothing. Kitty shook her head. "They should never have let us out of that hospital, Jeannie," she said quietly. "It's dangerous out here. I don't know how they expect anyone to live around here…"

"Gotham is a good city," Wayne interrupted. "Batman sees to it that crime stays at a low point."

"Well, a lot of good he's doing, isn't he?" Kitty retorted to Wayne, who looked taken aback. "Swooping down on innocent citizens, scaring us to death… when there's a nutcase on the loose he should be attending to instead!" She huffed in excited anxiety, and started messing with Jeannie Rose's hair again. Jeannie Rose batted her hand away, annoyed.

"Stop it!" she exclaimed.

"Sorry, honey, sorry," Kitty said nervously, dropping her hand. "I just… I'm sorry." She fidgeted with her skirt for a moment. "I certainly hope you don't expect me or Jeannie Rose to take part in this crazy scheme of yours. There isn't a police force in the world that would put the life of a child at stake to catch a crazy person. Not _one_!" She tucked a lock of her hair behind her own ear, then went back to fidgeting with her skirt. "Besides," she added, a bit more quietly, "Jeannie Rose and I… we have to start rebuilding our past. We don't have time to go looking for criminals."

"We might be able to help you with that," Wayne said, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

Kitty turned to him. "How?" she asked.

Wayne looked over at Gordon, who still held the kid by the arm. He nodded, then turned back to the kid. "Where is the Joker?" he asked. "Take us to him."

"Us?" Kitty asked, her eyes widening. "You don't mean… _all_ of us?"

Gordon looked over at her. "Ma'am," he said, "we strongly believe that if you come with us, it will help us to catch our man… and it might help you remember your past." He stared at her, his kindly eyes penetrating hers. "What do you say?" he asked.

Kitty stared at him, then looked at Jeannie Rose. Then she sighed and shook her head. "I'm… sorry," she said. "I just can't." She shifted Jeannie Rose's weight on her hip, then walked out, past Gordon, Wayne, and Maria. As she got to the door, she turned. "Thank you for your help," she said, "but I think Jeannie Rose and I would like to figure this one out on our own." She offered a faint smile, then turned and walked away.

Gordon looked at Maria, then Wayne, then back at the kid. "Well, that's not stopping the rest of us," he said. "Come on, kid. Let's go."

Maria eyed the teen coldly. _Great. Now we have no Kitty, which means that Napier's totally lost._ It had seemed that the woman was his last link to the past, the part of his life when he _wasn't_ a psychopath. Now there didn't seem to be a chance for getting him back to that state. She sighed. She had to respect Kitty's decision. The woman was obviously scared; plus, she had a daughter to take care of.

And why not? Daily Maria was questioning her own involvement with this. Ordinary civilians had no reason to chase after crazy murderers. At this point she had to admit that she'd shamed herself into helping.

Because if she didn't help, that would mean she was scared of something.

And now there was the matter of this punk. She couldn't get why Gordon insisted on trusting this kid; one look at his darty eyes was enough to label him a liar.

God, it was sad to see Gotham's police led by such a stupid guy. He'd eaten up the lie like it was dinner.

The boy wrenched his arm, trying to get out of the commissioner's vice-like grip, but eventually had to settle for replying in that position. "'Course I could," he said smugly, more than a little proud of his lie. "But I'm not stupid enough to do it for free. He'd _kill_ me for showing you guys his hideout." The boy yawned and scratched his head lazily. "I need some cash to keep me out of trouble in case y'don't find him. Say...a few thousand?"

Maria snorted. "Let me try to follow this. You come in here, some snot-nosed kid off the streets who we've never seen before, and claim that the Joker sent you. _Then_ you say that you can lead us to him if we pay you." She looked incredulously at Gordon and Wayne. "Where's your proof?"

The boy grinned and reached into the pocket of his worn-out jeans. He withdrew a card and held it up for Maria to see. "Good enough for you?"

The card was a Joker. Once again, he wanted to give himself a hearty pat on the back for this. He'd snagged the card from the wrecked train station before the police got there. Always good to have some insurance.

Maria shook her head and turned helplessly to Gordon. "We're not _actually_ going to trust this kid, are we?" She eyed the teenager; he was inspecting the paperwork on a nearby desk with a bored look. "He'll run the second we give him the money."

Gordon frowned and looked down at the kid. "Yeah, she's right," he said. "You wouldn't fold that easily if you were really working for the Joker." He took the card from the kid and examined it. Then he looked up at Wayne. "It looks pretty legitimate to me," he said.

Wayne took the card from Gordon and looked at it. "He's got one twisted sense of humour if it is," he said, handing it back to Gordon. He had almost agreed with Gordon, but there was no way Bruce Wayne would know about the Joker's so-called 'business card'. Only Batman and the Gotham Police Department knew about that. He shrugged. "I still wouldn't pay this shifty kid," he said. "You heard what Napier said, when we had him here. He doesn't work with anybody. He works alone."

"Yeah, but the tables have turned," Gordon said, looking at the card. "What if he knows we have the upper hand?"

"How could he?" Wayne asked. "Nobody even knew of Kitty's existence until a few minutes ago. Napier thinks she's dead."

Gordon nodded, considering Wayne's words, staring at the card. Then he pocketed it and turned back to the kid. "We're not going to pay you anything," he said firmly. "If you know where the Joker is, then you'll lead us to him. If he's actually there… then we'll see what we can do about some kind of reward." He nodded, satisfied with his plan.

Wayne watched him, then his eyes went to the kid. Of course the kid would not know where Joker was; a man like Napier would never work with some punk like this. He shook his head. If it were up to him, he would have turned the kid out on his ass, but it was not up to him. Bruce Wayne was a follower, not a leader, so he kept his mouth shut.

This was a disaster waiting to happen.

The boy made a sharp noise of protest when the commissioner tucked the card into an inner pocket. That was _worth_ something in the underground market, damn it! He kept carefully silent, though, knowing that there was more on the line than a few petty dollars from a pawn shop.

But now he was stuck. He wouldn't be able to show them the Joker's hideout; even _he_ didn't know that. He had to get that money somehow! He peered at the woman, feeling like it was her fault he was in this mess. If she hadn't said anything, maybe the officer wouldn't have questioned him. Then his eyes shot back to the papers on the nearby desk.

On the top were mug shots of the Joker. And mug shots clipped to other papers usually meant classified information.

He concealed a grin and finally shook his arm free, being careful to look casual. "Well, then, we'll need some goddamn transportation now, won't we?" he babbled, meandering around the room and slowly towards the desk. "It's in the narrows, which means you'll want some guns and shi..." He shot as quickly as his scrawny legs would carry him towards the front of the station, grabbed the papers, shook them at the three individuals behind him with a quick "hah!", and...

Slammed right into another police officer, causing him to drop the papers.

The man was leading a little girl by the hand through the maze of desks. Her wide brown eyes were slightly red around the edges, and one of her tiny hand's thumbs was stuck in the corner of her mouth. She wore a light blue sun dress and white sandals of a similar quality to the boy's. She looked about five or six, and very scared. When she saw the teen, though, she pulled her hand out of the officer's and wrapped her arms around the boy instead. Then she started crying.

The officer watched the two for a moment before looking at Gordon. "She came in a few minutes ago asking if we'd seen this guy," he explained, motioning towards the teenager.

The boy's panicked expression softened and he put a hand on her head. With a mean look back at the commissioner, he announced, "Fine. I don't work for the psycho or anything. Y'caught me, great job."

To the little girl, he added, "Come on, let's go."

She looked up with a few tear streaks on her cheeks. Her eyes clouded with confusion. "T-thought you said they were going to help?"

He frowned and shook his head. Then he looked down at the girl with a mild smile. "Nah, they're a bit busy right now."


	9. Chapter Eight

"_Where'd you get that scar, baby?"_

_His voice had that ever so slight twang to it that she loved. She glanced down at where he was tracing his finger along a white stripe that marked her shoulder, then put a hand on his, over it. He looked up at her, and their eyes met. __"Can't you tell me?"__ he asked._

_"It's not interesting,"__ she said._

_"It's on you," __he said quietly, his face nearing hers, __"and you know you're the most interesting thing in the world to me."_

_She smiled as their noses touched gently. __"I was a little girl,"__ she said, __"and I was pretending to be a ballerina… and I slipped and fell and hit my shoulder against the edge of a kitchen counter."_

_He hissed in sympathetic pain. __"Oh, ouch,"__ he said quietly. He touched her lips gently with his, and she smiled._

_"It doesn't hurt anymore,"__ she assured him._

_"And this one?"__ he asked, lifting her wrist and looking at it, resting his chin on her shoulder. __"Where did this one come from?"_

_She looked down at her wrist, at the burn mark that had discoloured a small patch of her skin. __"I was cooking, and I burned myself on the stove,"__ she said._

_"You don't have any really dramatic scars?"__ He chuckled, pushing her mousy-brown hair away from her face and kissing her cheek. She giggled, letting her hand drop down into her lap. He gently let her down onto their bed and kissed her collarbone, undoing the buttons of her shirt and pulling it off of her. His own shirt was already on the floor beside the bed. He rested his head against her soft, swollen stomach and smiled. __"I think I can feel it kicking,"__ he said._

_"I don't think so,"__ she smiled. __"I would have felt it."_

_He looked up at her, smiling. __"Why won't you get a test? Find out what it is."_

_She shook her head. __"We both know it's going to be a boy,"__ she said. __"A boy who looks just like his father… and we'll name him Jack, just like his father."__ She stroked his face, taking in his features. __"A little boy… with his father's eyes,"__ she said with a slight, wistful sigh._

_He smiled at her, then lay down next to her, tracing a pink shape on her ribcage, right under her breast. __"It looks like a heart,"__ he said._

_"You keep saying that,"__ she said, looking down at the birthmark. __"I don't see it."_

_"It is, look,"__ he insisted, tracing his finger around the edge of it. __"Lookit, that's definitely a heart."_

_"You're crazy."__ She smiled at him and leaned over, planting a soft kiss on his lips. He grinned._

_"They haven't caught me yet,"__ he said with a chuckle. He exhaled, satisfied, and lay back against his pillow, staring up at the ceiling. __"Tomorrow's another day,"__ he said, the smile starting to leave his face._

_She turned and looked at him. __"You're still working for those guys?"_

_He hesitated, staring up at the ceiling. __"Kitty, I don't want to talk about it."__ he said quietly._

_"You are! You're still working for them!"__ she exclaimed._

_"I said, I don't want to talk about it, Kitty,"__ he said, a little firmer._

_She sat up in bed, staring over at him. __"What do they make you do, Jack? Do they make you sell drugs?"_

_"Kitty, when I say I don't want to talk about it that usually means I don't want to fucking talk about it,"__ he groaned, closing his eyes._

_"Jack, look at me,"__ she said. __"Look at me, Jack."__ He turned and looked at her. She turned on the lamp next to the bed and looked at him, inspecting his eyes. __"Have you been taking drugs, Jack?"__ she asked sharply._

_He groaned and turned away from her. __"Shut off the light, Kitty. It's time for bed."_

_"Don't 'shut off the light, Kitty', me!"__ she exclaimed. __"I am your wife, and I am carrying your child! I have a right to know if the father of my baby is a junkie, o-or a drug dealer, or even one of those… hustlers, or pimps!"_

_"I'm not a fucking hustler, or a pimp, Kitty,"__ he said patiently, putting an exasperated hand to his face. __"I'm just doing a little bit of moonlighting. Now can we please go to sleep?"_

_"Do you use it, or do you just sell it?"__ she asked, still upset. __"Do you- do you- do you cut it before you sell it, save a little on the side, use it at home? Huh? Do you- do you 'spoon it', Jack? Mix it with Splenda o-or powdered milk or powdered chocolate milk and sell it to your little buyers and then save some for yourself when you get home?"__ She shoved him. __"Is that why you always take so goddamn long in the bathroom, Jack? Huh? Are you taking rufies in there, or rolling joints in there? Are you smoking crack behind my back, Jack?"_

_He looked up at her, frowning. __"Now you're being ridiculous,"__ he said. __"I don't do any of that. And how would you know about cutting and mixing, Kitty? A bit of an adventurer yourself at one time or another?"_

_She stared at him, frowning. __"I read,"__ she said solemnly. __"I read the same things you do."_

_"What?"__ he asked. __"Dickens?"_

_"No, Davies,"__ she said. __"You think I don't see you, sneaking around, reading Candy. But I see it, Jack."_

_"Oh, for Chrissake,"__ he scoffed, sitting up in bed. __"You don't honestly think I'm shooting up because I decided to pick up some Australian literature, do you?"__ She stared at him. __"Do you?"_

_"Would you be willing to take a drug test?"__ she asked._

_He frowned. __"We can't afford a drug test,"__ he answered._

_"Would you?" __she insisted. __"So help me god, if I have to scrape together the money myself, I'll get up enough money to get you tested, so help me god I will - "_

_"All right!"__ he exclaimed. He sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. __"All right."__ There was a long moment of silence before either of them spoke again. Then he sighed and took his hands away from his face. __"I've been cutting it and selling half,"__ he said. __"Keeping the other half for myself… to use."_

_She stared at him for a long time, and for a long time, neither one said a word. Then she turned, shut off the light, and lay down in bed, pulling the covers up to her chin and turning away from him. __"Goodnight, Jack,"__ she said quietly, coldly._

_He looked over at her. __"Kitty…"__ he said, pleading, but she would not look at him. He watched her for a moment, her petite form, just breathing, then he sighed and got back into bed, himself. __"Goodnight, Kitty,"__ he said quietly._

_That was the last time Jack Napier had ever seen his wife alive._

In fact, that had been the last time Jack Napier had seen his wife at all.

He had never received word of a funeral to attend, mostly because he had not been there, physically or mentally, to attend it, even if he had been invited. He assumed that he had been conveniently forgotten by Kitty's upper-class relatives, who had never approved of him and his blue-collar bohemian lifestyle from day one. He grimaced to imagine how they would think of him now; he had gotten a bit more eccentric since the last time they had seen him.

…All right, perhaps more than a bit.

He crouched beside a storm drain, staring at his reflection in a puddle that had not managed to go under. He absentmindedly pushed his green-tinted hair out of his eyes as he smudged a careful red grin across his white face. He had already remembered to black out his eyes, and he was just adding the finishing touches. His makeup had needed a touch-up, and now that he had given it one, he did not have to look at his own, real face ever again. He did not have to remember the young man he had once been… the face he had once had… the face of a lover, a worker, a father, a husband, a human.

That was over now. He was no longer Jack Napier. Now, he was the Joker.

He reached over and pulled his ratty suitcase to him, opening it and looking inside. He set out the weapons on the ground, arranging them neatly as he took each one out. He had his trusty machine gun, but now he had a variety of handguns, various knives, what looked like a machete, a buzz-saw, a couple of explosives - he had already had his fun with those, at the old abandoned Gotham train station - and a few other things he did not quite know how to use... or if they were even weapons. He gently ran his hand over each one of them, examining them closely, his dark eyes dissecting every feature of every weapon.

He was sure that he would get the chance to use every single one of them, if not against Batman, then against the poor, snivelling city of Gotham.

Kitty, his wife, his everything, the love of his life, was dead. Someone was going to pay.

. . .

Crane stood outside Arkham Asylum, staring up at the building that he had once been so proud to oversee, and which now he would have to be crazy to return to.

It was a good thing he was crazy.

Crane let himself in through the front doors, making sure not to step in anything, and made his way to the front desk, where Jessica sat, the bruise on her head starting to heal, but still apparent. She seemed a little bit more on edge since the last time he had seen her. Whatever could be the cause of that, he was not quite sure. He grinned. Maybe one of her patients had gotten the better of her. It had been known to happen, after all.

He approached the desk and leaned against it. Jessica did not even look up. "Yes?" she asked.

"I'm here on a visit," Crane said. "Wanted to see one of the patients."

Jessica nodded, moving to her computer. "Name?" she asked, still not looking up at him.

Crane smiled, paused, and then said, "Doctor Jonathan Crane."

Jessica hesitated, then looked up at him in horror. "D-Doctor Crane," she stuttered. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to see _you_, of course," he said, with a false tone of affability. "I've missed you so." He stood, moving around to the other side of the desk. Jessica got up from her seat quickly, grabbing up the phone and holding it in plain view, like a weapon of some kind.

"I'll call the police," she said. "Don't come near me, Doctor Crane. I'll call the police!"

"They won't come," he said. "And besides, why would you call the police on an old friend?" He took the phone from her hand and hung it up, then wrapped an embracing arm around her. Jessica swallowed, then her eyebrows knitted together in surprised propriety.

"Doctor Crane!" she exclaimed. "Are you… happy to see me?"

"No, Jessica," he hissed into her ear. "And now you'll do what I say, or some of your internal organs will make a very nice addition to the flooring of Arkham Asylum." Jessica looked down and saw that what she had thought had been Doctor Crane was actually a handgun he held pressed against her abdomen. She looked back up at him.

"Which inmate did you want to see, Doctor Crane?" she asked, hoarsely.

Crane looked at her. "I think you know which one," he said.

Jessica shook her head. "We can't do that, sir," she said. "You know I can't. That man… do you know what he did to his wife?" She looked frantic now. "Doctor Crane, he's crazy!"

Crane grinned. "Join the club." he said. He jabbed the gun into her side. "Now, Jessica," he said slowly, "can we please go see my friend?"

Jessica moved silently through the halls of the asylum, trying not to attract too much attention to herself. The guards were all off-duty somewhere (so it seemed; where were the guards when you needed them?) and so she and Crane were able to make it to the cell he had specified with no trouble at all. She turned to face the door, got out her ring of keys, and hesitated, staring at them. Then she looked up at Crane. "I don't think I can do this," she said. "This man is a madman and a killer."

"Which is exactly why I want him," Crane said slowly, nodding.

Jessica stared at him, then went back to her keys, shakily flipping through them until she found the right one. "This is wrong," she said quietly. "This is so wrong."

"I'm _waiting_, Jessica," Crane said, pushing the cold metal of the gun a little harder into her side.

Jessica nodded, flipping through the keys faster, until she found the one she needed. She swiped it through the lock on the side of the door and automatically the door unlocked. She held her breath; this was the end of her career, for sure. She had been forced not once, but twice, into freeing the people in Crane's asylum - the first being Crane, himself.

"Go inside," said Crane, indicating with the gun. Jessica did as she was told, and Crane followed her inside, continuing to hold the gun in her side. "Now undo his straightjacket," he said.

Jessica turned to Crane, her eyes wide with panic. "No! I can't do it, Doctor Crane, I won't free another madman to wreak havoc on Gotham City - !"

He cocked the gun and placed it between her eyes. "Undo his straightjacket, Jessica," he said slowly, articulating his words.

Jessica swallowed hard, staring at the gun, then turned to the man and, with shaking hands, started undoing the straps, until the man was free of the straightjacket. She pulled the straightjacket off of him, leaving him completely free. Her breathing was staggered, scared.

Crane smiled, lowering the gun. "How does that feel?" he asked, more to himself than to the inmate. He inhaled, proud of himself. "Thank you, Jessica," he said.

Jessica nodded, lowering the straightjacket. "Anything you say, Doctor Cr-"

BLAM. Where Jessica had once stood there was now nothing but a large, gory blood spatter. The secretary lay, glassy-eyed, on the floor of the cell, one hand still clutching the straightjacket, a large, bloody hole through the back of her head. Crane stared at her, inspecting his work, and raised a haughty eyebrow before tucking the gun back into his belt and looking up at the inmate. He grinned at the inmate.

"Ready to find your daughter," he asked, "Mister Goodhart?"

The man didn't look the least bit distraught at the sight of his caretaker's bloody corpse, or the gaping wound in the back of her skull. In fact, the edges of his mouth twitched up in what could have been a manic grin, then fell back down. Then his gaze turned to his savior. He rose slowly from the chair like a king from a throne and stepped to the bloodstained floor with a rather unsteady gait; nearly three years sitting still in the same chair could do that to a man.

He flexed his arms and legs a few times, relishing in the feeling of being _free_. Then he met Crane's gaze with his own. The tired bags under his eyes, in addition to his pale skin, made his face a frightening picture.

"Gladly."

Charles Goodhart had been raised a good Catholic. His parents carted him off to mass once a week the minute he could crawl, and every day when he started walking. Stories about hell and the monsters living inside it, how they could jump up to earth and take over regular people, had been deeply ingrained in the man from when he was very young. Thus, he strongly believed that demons lived among ordinary people like himself. Well, to be more accurate, _two_ demons. Unfortunately, by the time he recognized the first for what she was, they were married. And they had one daughter, who at the time was just turning ten.

He wasn't a wasteful man by nature, but he knew what he had to do. The girl was tainted, and there was no helping it.

Chloe was easy enough to get rid of. It was ridiculous how frail women were getting; had he taken the four strikes to the head with the iron, he wouldn't have dropped as easily as his wife. He hadn't counted on the neighbors overhearing the commotion, though. Being locked up in the local loony bin wasn't the ideal place to get rid of the abomination he was supposed to call a daughter.

The doctors at the place said that he had some condition. The words "hallucinations", disconnection from reality", and "episodes" came up a lot in their diagnoses. He'd spent nearly fourteen years at that asylum before Maria decided to leave the ghosts of her past behind and strike out for Gotham City.

The day she left, he nearly killed three of his fellow inmates during relaxation time.

The director decided that it was high time they get this particular man out of their hair. As a bonus, Arkham Asylum was known for miles for its superior facilities. Thus, Charles Goodhart was moved to Arkham, and Maria was never informed.

. . .

Nice day. Low temperature, good light, little wind, not many airborne pollutants. The regular high amount of noise pollution, but when did downtown Gotham _ever_ quiet down?

Of course, none of that really concerned Jeanette Rossini, who was busy directing every curse she knew at the black van blocking what had been a perfect shot.

It sat directly in front of the glass double-doors of Gotham's First City Bank. The fuzzy blue hair of her target's clown mask was just visible, waving in the light breeze like a flag. The thirty-one-year-old had the distinct feeling that it was mocking her from behind its makeshift shield. She ground her teeth and reluctantly pulled her sniper rifle's muzzle from its perch on her bi-pod, a steadying arm for the gun. She needed a moment to cool down. The setup had been all she could ask for, and more. The goons were set to rob the bank at three. She'd made her way to the roof of the adjacent hotel half an hour before, secured her location, and waited. Every tiny detail had fallen into place. Then this van glitch had ruined everything.

The woman had high cheekbones and smooth olive skin, both trademarks of her very Italian parents. Dark brown hair, which was now kept up in a ponytail, was usually tumbling around her neck in soft curls. Her hips were accented by simple black pants that sat on her hips and flared at the bottom; a short-sleeved top rested on her shoulders under a black leather jacket. The toe of one of her black boots tapped in irritation. She was "a curvy babe," as one drunkard had put it seconds before landing on his bum in the middle of a bar and being asked if he knew what a stiletto felt like when it was shoved into one's throat. In all, she definitely didn't have the expected looks of her profession.

People would call her a murderer as an insult. People would call her an assassin as a compliment. But she'd always shake her head with a polite smile and correct them. "No, I just kill people."

Now, a frown sat on her thin lips. It looked more like a dissatisfied scowl than full-blown fury on her refined features, but her burning hazel eyes told a different story.

She had tried several times to pull this off, and each attempt had failed because of some small mistake, or an unexpected obstruction. It wasn't a habit she'd like to develop. Her gaze rested on the waving blue hair for a few moments. Suddenly, she moved towards the other side of the roof, grabbing the bi-pod from the edge of the roof and moving close to the ground to not be seen.

She was _not_ going through another failure.

The reason she'd chosen her specific location on the roof was partially because it offered the clearest, closest shot, but mostly because it provided cover. The number one unwritten rule of assassins was to never be seen. You worked silently in the shadows, covered your tracks well, and were never spotted. Because the second you were spotted, you were done for.

Jeanette sighed and attached the bi-pod to her new position, being extremely careful to stay out of the line of sight of anyone below. She was just desperate enough to break some rules.

In a half-squatting, half-kneeling position, she peered through her newly adjusted scope and sighed in relief; her target was clearly visible now, clutching his automatic with white glove-clad hands that had obviously rarely held a gun before. She checked the wind one more time to make sure it wouldn't throw off the bullet's trajectory, and went through her usual pre-shot mantra.

_Aim, shoot, double-check, disappear. Aim, shoot, double-check disappear._

She focused in on the right side of the man's chest.

She breathed in and pulled the trigger back a fraction of an inch.

She breathed out.

_BANG._

"FUCK!" Napier jumped when the chest of the man he had been prompting suddenly exploded into a gory spatter of blood and he fell to the ground, dead. He looked around frantically, trying to find the source of the gunshot. He looked all around, pulling a knife from the sleeve of his jacket and picking up the automatic the man had dropped. Eyes wide, he turned in a full three-sixty before stopping, hesitating, and then looking up.

There she was - sitting there, just waiting to be seen. Napier picked up the automatic and opened fire at her, not aiming to hit her, but to scare her. He dropped the weapon to his side. "YOU WANT SOME?! DO YOU?!" he shouted up at her. "KEEP KILLING MY GUYS AND YOU'LL GET SOME!"

He walked towards the building where the woman perched atop like some kind of lethal bird of prey. "Gotham has fucked with me too many times!" he called up to her. "And I'm going to fuck it right back!" He let off another few rounds to make his point. "DON'T FUCK WITH ME!" he shouted.

_Oh, shit._

Jeanette dropped to the ground the instant she heard gunfire, praying that the man's warning shots really were just warning shots. Maybe sacrificing her cover wasn't a good idea. She smoothed her hair and took one last glance at the man in the street below before packing her gun away into its inconspicuous black briefcase-like carrying case. Then she headed for the stairs down from the roof.

At least she'd gotten his attention. And some good psychological information. It was always good to know who you wanted to work. "Gotham has fucked with me too many times"? Maybe a throwback to something that happened in his past? That hinted at a crime committed against him, which might mean...

Jeanette paused at the landing of her suite and almost smiled. Better wait until she had a computer handy.

Opening the door to her executive suite was like stepping into paradise. God only knew why Gotham had a Radisson, but Jeanette was definitely not complaining. The carpets were softer than feathers, her bed was airy and ridiculously comfortable, and the room sprawled across three connecting rooms. A triple-lock on the door was a nice feature, of course. Sure, it cost a pretty penny to stay here for any long period of time, but who said Jeanette wasn't ready to fork out a few thou for a nice place to rest her head?

She dropped the gun case and her other equipment onto the bed and went straight to her laptop. She pulled up her running file on Jack Napier and moved her cursor to the bottom to begin typing. Maybe she could grab some dinner in a few hours and get ready for her first contact with the Joker.


	10. Chapter Nine

Kitty let Jeannie Rose down as soon as they exited the police station. She looked both ways, watching for traffic, before starting across the street, Jeannie Rose holding onto her hand. Kitty had had enough excitement in that one day to last her a year, and all she could think of was how much she wanted to go to the apartment that the hospital had set up for her and her daughter, make some chicken soup and spaghetti-o's, tuck Jeannie Rose in, and get some sleep.

But something kept nagging at the back of her mind… Jack Napier. It had been mentioned to her five years ago, at the hospital, and she had disregarded it. It was just a mistake. But now she had been singled out again and asked about Jack Napier. She turned a corner, Jeannie Rose's little pink shoes making slight clicking noises on the pavement as she followed behind. Maybe it was not a mistake, after all. Maybe Jack Napier was really someone who had been in her past. She unzipped her purse and fooled with all the things inside it - lipstick, wallet, keys. She really did not have many things to her name, but she had no idea what kind of person she had been, so she had been forced to start from scratch.

As she was nearing her apartment complex, she pulled out her keys and approached the front door, sighing. Jeannie Rose watched her, then turned, and her eyes widened. "Mommie!" she cried frantically. Kitty quickly turned to see what the matter was, and found herself face-to-face with a man she had never seen before. She looked and saw that another, larger man had grabbed hold of Jeannie Rose, who was struggling and screaming to get free. Kitty turned back to the man who stood directly before her, her eyes red with tears she was trying to defiantly hold in. "Who are you?!" she demanded, her voice shaking.

"Your worst nightmare," Crane answered with a mad, wicked grin.

Kitty threw up her hands as a burlap bag was thrown over her head; then everything went black.

. . .

The owner of Jim's Quick-Stop Pharmacy was used to seeing a lot of strange characters walk through the doors of his shop. He _did_ work in the center of the Narrows, so what could one expect? But the girl currently drumming her fingers nervously on the counter in front of him was definitely one of the weirder ones.

The blonde had come into the shop and just stood there for a few minutes, studying it like it was the most interesting thing in the world. Jim took a look around himself; a wall of cigarette packs hung behind him, and aisles full of garbage like lighters and junk food stretched the length of the little store. The chick seemed particularly interested in the wood paneling that made up the walls. He chuckled quietly to himself. Maybe she was a carpenter? Who the fuck knew nowadays?

Just a moment ago he'd asked offhandedly if she was there for drugs; he himself was smoking a cigar, so there wouldn't be any judging. She informed him that substance abuse was gross and that she'd never do it. He didn't believe her. Her eyes were rimmed faintly with red and had shadows under them, probably from lack of sleep. Her hands jumped every few minutes with little spasms. In fact, she didn't seem able to stand still at all; even during their conversation, she'd moved around the shop nonstop, taking quick, disinterested glances at packs of cigarettes and bags of chips before returning to the counter again.

Besides her mannerisms, Jim thought she'd be the perfect candidate to be found every night at a club. Her sandy blonde hair was short and fell around her face like a bundle of feathers. Her clothing was obnoxiously bright; a hellishly lime green tank top, tight pink pants, and sky blue combat boots (God only knew where she scrounged those up) were nearly blinding the store owner. He could see at least three piercings in each ear and a stud in her nose. Everything about this kid screamed drugged-up punk.

When she spoke, though, her voice was girly and flirtatious. Fast, yes, and clipped, but not what he'd expect of a hardcore punk.

"So, do you have any sodium nitrate?"

He looked at her blankly. What the hell was _that_ supposed to be, and why would some punk girl want to get some? He sort of shrugged, not willing to admit he had no idea what she was talking about. She seemed to understand. "You know...saltpeter." Yeah, because _that_ made more sense. He squinted at her, and finally said, "Sorry?"

She let out an exasperated breath and shook her head like she was dealing with a child. "Whatever. Do you have _fireworks_?" She drew out the word to help him understand. Jim grunted and motioned toward a corner of the store. The girl smiled happily and skipped over. The owner watched with a curious eye as she picked through the bin of rockets. As far as he knew, the damn things weren't even _legal_ in Gotham; he'd never sold any, so if this girl set them off, he might get in a spot of trouble. Maybe he could convince her to buy something else. He eyed her rear end when she bent over to look at a roman candle. Maybe she'd like to look at the condoms.

His distracted thoughts were brought back to earth when she carelessly dropped a few of the explosives on the counter. He jumped and shot her a dirty look (what if they'd gone of or something?), but she was too busy fishing for, presumably, a purse. "How much?" she asked. Jim's glare was lost on her innocent smile, so he rang up each of the items. Ten bottle rockets, seven skyrockets, two roman candles, and a few bottles of lighter refill that she must've grabbed when he was...distracted. He raised his eyebrows when the price came up. "Sixty bucks," he informed her, and casually put out a hand for the money.

The girl frowned. "Bit expensive, don't you think?" she asked in a slightly darker tone than she'd used before. He shrugged, completely uncaring. He wished she'd just buy her crap and go away. She finally pulled out her purse and looked inside her wallet. Then she put her wallet back and looked back at him.

"Y'sure I couldn't do anything to get you to lower the price?" she asked with a wink, and for a minute Jim seriously considered it. He was almost fifty with no wife or girlfriend to speak of. Who knew how many times this opportunity would come up again? But in the end he shook his head and jerked his fingers as if to say "just give me the money."

The girl looked at his hand darkly, back at his face, then down at his hand again. "Fuckin' forget it, asshole," she said at last, flicking him off before storming out of the store.

Jim watched her with a crooked smile on his face. What a psycho. He brushed the counter off as if to clear it of her bad vibes and faced the television hanging on the wall.

Ten minutes later he was standing outside, facing the flaming ruins of his store (and policemen attempting to avoid the volley of illegal fireworks shooting around) and looking at a red smily-face painted in spray-paint across the sidewalk. Underneath it was scrawled a message with a little heart: "Fix your damn prices!"

"Who the fuck's _that_ chick?"

"No idea, but I bet she sucks. I mean, _look_ at her."

Flicker's face lit up with an easy grin as she eavesdropped on the two college kids loitering a few feet behind her. It was shocking what some people would say if you just turned your back on them. Shocking, she supposed, but accurate from their viewpoint. She didn't particularly look the part of a Guitar Hero addict; after her little trip to the convenience store she'd brushed her hair straight and tidy, and her usually extravagant clothing had been toned down to a muted blue shirt and jeans. She'd even replaced her boots with worn-out tennies. Now the twenty-something-year-old looked about her age.

She tapped her fingers on the counter next to her drink and called the bartender for another. He promptly filled her glass from one of the taps. She didn't usually go for the generic beer brands, but she was currently running a bit low on cash these days. She chugged the mug without a second thought and wiped her grinning mouth clumsily. Those two idiots wouldn't be gossiping any more in a few minutes. It was almost her turn.

Beyond the two guys was a giant flatscreen. A teenage kid was holding onto his guitar controller for dear life as he half-assed some ridiculous metal song. Flick gave him a smug look and shook her head at the bartender, whose expression told her he was about to refill her glass again. This contest was for people who really knew the game; a hundred-dollar prize, as it had been advertised in the bar's windows, was enough to tell her that. It was cute to see the little kids come and try, though, and this didn't just seem to be her opinion; the entire group circled around the boy was nudging each other and grinning.

Finally, the song ended. She stood up and tipped the last few drops of beer into her mouth. With one last lick of her lips (the two boys who'd been talking about her earlier gave her considering looks; apparently, they thought she was looking at them) she slapped the back of the teenager and took the guitar from him. "Good one," she said in a falsely enthusiastic voice, drawing another few chuckles from the onlookers. A quick look around told her that she was the only female present.

It drew another cocky grin to her lips. Good.

She strummed down to a song that she liked and put her finger on the "accept" key before a tiny cough issued from right behind her. She raised her eyebrows and turned. One of the two gossipers informed her, "Somebody's done that one."

"Yeah, be _original_," his companion said, and they sniggered a bit as she turned back to the screen. _Fuckin' assholes..._ she thought, nodding innocently and looking for another one. Unfortunately, when she paused again, the same guy spoke up. "That one, too."

This time she turned and full-out glared at the guy. She knew perfectly damn well that no one had played the song yet, and so did he. The cocky grin remained on his face, though, as he added, "It was before you got here." Flick growled in reply and selected a song before anything more could be said.

This was home. She settled into the beat of the music quickly, ignoring the drop-jaw stares she was getting. The concept of the game was simple; press the right button and strum at the right time, and tiny puff of fire came up from the note. That was all the motivation she needed. Before she knew it, the song was halfway over, and she was riding the victory wave home.

Then the screen went black.

Her fingers froze on their frets and she stared blankly at the television for a few seconds. Then a quiet snicker broke the spell. One of her two admirers was holding up the cord for the Playstation. "Oops, my bad," he said in a voice that was neither apologetic nor regretful in any way. "I tripped over it." She grimaced and motioned for him to plug it back in, but he shook his head sadly.

"See, the rules are one song. There's no exceptions for accidents. Guess you're done." He looked at her for a long moment, that stupid smile still stuck on his face. Flick's eyes didn't move away from him until he took a few steps back, clearly unnerved by her gaze. This meant that she had to kiss her firework money, her pride, and the heating in her apartment goodbye.

It also meant that something had to be burned. _Had_ to.

She took the loss with a brave face, shrugging off apologies and making her way back to the bar. The bartender had already filled her mug; she drained it in a second, and another two after it, before changing her order. "A hundred proof this time, doc," she said. The bartender gave her a long look, then pulled a bottle of super-concentrated liquor from behind the counter. What shit did he give if one of his patrons died? They were in the narrows, and the police these days were too scared to go there that they pretended everything was fine.

With a gracious nod she walked away with the drink, patting her pocket to make sure her lighter was still there. A nice blaze started up at the entrance would do the trick; most of the bar was made of wood anyways. If she was lucky, those two assholes would get caught inside.

She cautiously dripped the alcohol across the threshold and hoped it would be enough to burn the place down. Suddenly, she remembered the bottle rocket she'd palmed from the burning convenience store. She pulled it out and lit the end of it. Then she propped it up in the doorway and ran like hell. Within minutes, the door was completely in flames and panicked people were pouring out of the bar.

Flick laughed all the way down the block, storing the lighter in her pocket with a content smile. The ground weaved a bit under her feet, reminding her of exactly how many drinks she'd had that night. The thought drew another bout of laughter, and a glance back at the burning building. Guess she wouldn't have to pay the tab.

She got another few feet before the world tipped sideways and she found herself in a gutter. The girl tried to sit up, or maybe even smooth out her hair that had been ruffled by the fall, but everything was spinning too quickly. So she just rearranged herself until she was lying on her back, watching the stars float before her eyes. "Mmm'kay...nosso much to drink nezztime..." she slurred, giggling at her voice. Then she blew out a huge breath and figured she'd just spend the night here, even though it was barely three in the afternoon. Maybe she shouldn't have been drinking so early in the morning. Her brain was comfortably fuzzy, and the unlit street lights swam before her eyes.

. . .

Crane watched the sleeping form of the woman he had kidnapped as she lay slumped, like a doll, against the wall of the abandoned warehouse where he had taken her and her little daughter. It was only a temporary residence; he would soon choose another, but for now, this was good enough. He crouched before her on the floor, flicking a Zippo lighter open and closed, blinking slowly and meditatively every so often, staring intently at her, waiting for her to wake up. She had been out for almost an hour now, but Crane was a patient man. He could sit here all night, waiting for her to wake. He stopped his flicking of the lighter long enough to check his watch, then went back to staring at her and flicking it, open, closed, open closed. It was almost hypnotizing.

He did not know her name, and he was willing to bet she was not about to tell him. She was a small woman, petite in figure, with a sweet, innocent face. She looked like she had lost her way from A Child's Garden of Verses and had somehow ended up here, along with her little daughter. The daughter, Crane had come to find, was something else again. She had tried to bite both him and the man he had freed from Arkham, and succeeded in kicking him, Crane, in the shin, before he had finally resorted to tying her hands and feet and gagging her. Now she had fallen asleep from the effort and was dreaming tranquilly in some side room. The kick had not hurt so much as had bruised his rather pretentious pride, and he had decided to leave the bratty girl to his new lackey, and take care of the much easier-to-deal-with mother, himself.

He flicked the lighter into life, watching the little flame dance around the proverbial wick, the light reflected eerily in his glasses. Then a sound snapped him back to the world of the living, and he clicked the lighter shut and looked up in time to see the woman stirring. He sat, crouched, staring intently at her, silent. She would wake and see him, and kudos to her if she did not scream. Crane smiled. He knew that he sometimes had that effect on the weak-minded.

Kitty's eyes fluttered open and she stared at Crane blankly for a moment before biting her lip. If she made any kind of noise, he would see it as a weakness. She had never met him before, but for some reason, just one look into those bespectacled crystal eyes told her everything she needed to know. _Don't mess with this guy. He's seriously fucked up._

Crane stared at her, then a slight smile began to creep up the corners of his mouth. "Welcome back to the land of the living," he said.

Kitty stared at him, then turned left and right, looking for Jeannie Rose. Then she turned back to Crane. "Where's my daughter?" she asked, a bit of a threatening edge to her gentle voice, which she was trying to keep from shaking. "What did you do with my daughter?"

"Relax, miss, your daughter is fine." Crane grinned at her, a slick, Cheshire-cat grin that did not calm Kitty at all. "She's just resting in a side room. You'll be able to see her soon enough."

His reassuring words did nothing to calm her nerves. "What do you want with us?" she asked.

"Oh, not much, just a bit of information," Crane said, removing his glasses and standing, taking a cloth from his pocket and beginning to wipe the lenses clean. He put them back on his face and the wan light flashed in their reflective surfaces as he turned back to face Kitty. She stared at him, slowly tucking her knees up to her chest like a child. He moved back over to her and crouched in front of her. "You were taken to the Gotham police station by Batman," he said slowly. "Why?"

Kitty shook her head. "I don't know," she said quietly. "I just want my daughter back."

Crane watched her face for a long moment, then put a hand on one of her knees. "I know this is hard for you," he said slowly. There was no touch of pity in his scathing, quiet voice. "But you have to try to remember." He bit his lip, as if coercing a child. "Can you do that for me?"

"No," Kitty said. "I just want my daughter back. Give her back to me. Please, give her back."

"I can't do that, not until you tell me why you were brought to the station," Crane said patiently.

Kitty looked away. This was a hard choice. If she told him, then she might unintentionally be disclosing vital, confidential information. If she did not, then she would never see Jeannie Rose again. It seemed like an easy choice to make, but she was not sure if she could trust this man, this… _psychopath_. She turned back and stared into his mesmerizing eyes. One look at him told her that he was not right in the head. She took a deep breath. "If I do this, if I tell you," Kitty said, trying not to start crying, "will you let me and my daughter go?"

"You talk, I talk, you both go free, you never see me again, life goes on," Crane said, with a bit of a bitter lilt at the end of the statement and a strange coaxing grin. "I'm not asking for much here…" He paused. "I'm sorry, I don't believe I caught your name," he said, with a feigned politeness that hinted at insanity.

Kitty shook her head. "No," she said. "I'm not giving you my name."

Crane frowned, a dark, bitter frown. "You'll tell me your name," he said quietly, articulating his words, "or I'll have my assistant take one of your daughter's fingers off with a pair of garden shears."

Kitty exclaimed, mortified, and her eyes reddened with terrified tears. This man was insane, and her daughter was at his mercy. "K-Kitty!" she stuttered. "My name… my name is Kitty!"

"Good… Kitty," Crane said, putting his other hand on her knees. "Now you'll tell me… why you were at the Gotham police station."

"I don't know!" Kitty exclaimed. "Batman picked us up and he brought us there, but I don't know why - "

"Don't you?" His hands slid to her thighs and she choked, turning her head and squeezing her eyes shut, tears rolling down her cheeks. He leaned forward. "I think you do," he whispered in her ear.

"They wanted to… to question me," Kitty sobbed, still not looking at him. "They wanted to know if I knew someone, but I didn't, so they let me go… please…!" She clenched her fists, backing herself as close to the wall as she could manage. "Please…"

"What person did they ask you about, Kitty?" Crane breathed her name slowly into her ear, his hands moving up underneath her skirt. "What was his name?"

"Jack… Napier," she choked out. She was barely able to speak, between her fear and her tears.

"Jack Napier?" Crane asked, suddenly sounding very interested. "What about him?"

"Jack Napier… they said… they said somebody named… Jack Napier…" She stopped, sniffling. "Please, just let me and my daughter go," she begged.

"Jack Napier _what_, Kitty?" Crane asked, leaning in closer.

"Jack Napier… was married to someone with my name," she said. "They said… they thought I might be… Jack Napier's wife."

Crane sat back, looking surprised. His face had been wiped blank of his usual smug smirk, and he stared at her with shock in his light blue eyes. "His wife?" he asked curtly. Kitty nodded, biting her lip. Crane stared at her for a long moment, then stood, wiping his hands on his jacket. "We have somewhere to go," he said. "Goodhart!" he called. "Get the girl."

"But…" Kitty looked up at him, her eyes wide. "But you said we could go free…!"

"Well, I lied," he said candidly. "I still need you." Then he turned back to Kitty, who looked mortified. "Thanks for the quickie," he said with a horrid smile and a sarcastic wink, then started out of the room, leaving Kitty sitting on the floor. "Get the woman, too," he called to Goodhart. "We're going to need both of them where we're going."

. . .

_Click. Click. Click._

That sound had been going on for at least fifteen minutes before Flick was finally able to place it. _Lighter._ Her nose twitched like a dog's who had just caught an interesting scent, and she slowly sat upright.

Before she went to investigate, she had to take inventory. Her back ached like hell, as did her eyes, head, arms...okay, so her entire body was a mass of dull pain. That she could deal with. Her vision had cleared of the wavy stars she'd seen earlier and were now replaced with _real_ stars. Holy hell. Exactly how long had she been out?

She finally got to her feet, a bit unsteady at first. She grabbed a nearby mailbox that appeared as if it had been beaten heavily with a baseball bat and stopped moving. Her hand slipped automatically into her pocket and grabbed her lighter; it was a sort of lucky charm, something that always calmed her down and made her feel better. And it also reminded her why she'd gotten up in the first place. Someone had been toying with a lighter, and she was just energetic enough to find out who.

She slipped across the street with practiced stealth, still offset by her hangover. (She'd never gotten one this bad, she realized. How many drinks had that stupid bartender given her?) The final remnants of her nap were finally gone by the time she reached the abandoned warehouse. The clicking had stopped a few minutes ago, but it was easy to tell who'd been using it; Flick's ultra-sensitive nose could still smell a bit of smoke in the air, and since the woman was tied up...

Being careful to stay out of the pair's vision, she peeked around the edge of the building. _Creepo rapist?_ she wondered briefly before settling into listen to the conversation. Something about a police station (she almost left at this point; police were never good news), and a fellow named Jack Napier. In fact, lighter-man seemed to have quite a fixation on this Napier guy. Flick grinned and hoped Napier wasn't too superficial, because lighter-man didn't have too much going for him in the looks department. Maybe with a good haircut, some sweeping bangs, and a few years out in the sun...And some good clothes. She automatically wrinkled her nose at his muted suit. Looked like a lawyer. Or a shrink. She'd met enough of both to recognize one. His face was okay, she supposed; women were really going for the more feminine, European look nowadays. And his eyes were fantastic from what she could see in the dim light. Too bad he wore those stupid glasses.

She backed away around the corner when the duo's little conversation was over, thoroughly interested. Maybe she'd just have to follow them and see what was up. Hell, you never knew; maybe they had some money on them.

. . .

It was absolutely humiliating following orders from Crane, Charles decided as he hummed a few bars of "Amazing Grace." All he'd heard from the little idiot since leaving Arkham was "do this" and "do that." Then again, Crane was his only link to little Maria. And there was no way he'd sacrifice a lead to his daughter over something petty like pride.

He harrumphed and eyed the girl tied up in the corner. At least _that_ little monster had gone to sleep. For some reason, she seemed to know exactly where to aim on a man to get him to drop her. He bit his lip, decided she'd stay out for at least a few more minutes, and walked to the front of the warehouse.

He smacked his arms a few times with his palms to warm up; it had been a very, _very_ long time since he'd felt fresh air, and being out of Arkham's controlled atmosphere seemed to constantly catch him by surprise. The city seemed so loud compared to his old cell, too...He shook his head. Reminiscing about being locked in an asylum? That wasn't good behavior.

That's when he caught a bit of movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned quietly and was surprised to find a woman standing at the edge of the warehouse.

It was obvious she didn't know he was there. He just watched her for a moment, eyes narrowed. She didn't seem like much of a thread, just some punk out for a few kicks. All the same, better let Crane know. You wouldn't want a surprise like _that_ messing up any big plans.

God must have been organizing the timing that night, because at that moment Crane's voice reached Charles' ears. The girl backed around the corner and he dove out of sight into the building. On his way out the side door, he grabbed the girl and slung her roughly over a shoulder. Thankfully, the beast was still sleeping.

"We have a guest," he informed Crane as soon as he saw the man. He didn't bother asking what he and the woman had discussed; he was sure Crane wouldn't tell him. "There's some punk at the front who looked like she was eavesdropping." He reached down and grabbed the woman's arm, forcing her to stand and shooting her a warning look to stay quiet and out of the way.

Crane looked up at the word 'guest', alert, his glasses flashing menacingly in the light. He stared at Goodhart, and then in the direction that he was pointing. He paused, staring at the doorway, where he could not see anyone, himself, but knew that Goodhart had spotted an intruder. He slowly arched an eyebrow. He would have to take care of this problem, himself. He reached into his jacket pocket and slowly withdrew a small pepper-spray can full of fear toxin, and, holding it carefully at his side, he started towards the doorway.

It was a small wonder that someone had found him, the way the little girl had been carrying on before; even so, he was more than a little put off by the fact that he had been discovered so early on in the game. He would have to send this miscreant screaming into a cell at Arkham - or six feet under. Crane had never actually killed someone, himself; he had been much more amused to watch the people subjected to his fear toxin kill themselves, or others, out of sheer terror. That was what had happened, almost a month ago. That was just an experiment gone terribly wrong… or terribly right.

It depended on how you looked at it. From behind Crane's glasses, the experiment had gone swimmingly.

He turned the small aerosol in his fingers, making absolute sure that he made no noise as he crossed to the doorway. A girl, Goodhart had said. Well, a girl would be more easily taken care of than a man, considering Crane's diminutive stature, but still, he could not be too cautious. Some girls were forces to be reckoned with… like that Rachel Dawes. He sneered. He could still see her smug, smiling face, everywhere he turned, her perky grin and twinkling eyes, almost mocking him from every angle. Rachel Dawes… she would get hers, someday.

He was not sure why he remained so fixated on Rachel Dawes. It almost seemed an obsession… and yet, he wanted nothing to do with the reporter. There was no sexual attraction, there, only hatred. Perhaps this was the kind of obsession a serial killer felt before stalking down a victim. Crane had never considered himself a killer, but he could not help but admit that he would not be sorry to see Rachel Dawes dead.

At least that would wipe the smile off her face.

The aerosol can quivered in his hand as he reached the door frame, paused, listening for the sound of breathing, the sound of movement, anything. He could hear her; her scared, staggered breathing, little shuffles of her feet, tiny things that a person would not usually be aware of, Crane picked up. He bowed his head slightly, listening to her, then stepped out, brandishing the aerosol can…

Then he stopped. She stood before him, a bratty-looking little punk, blonde, with the tasteless clothes of youth adorning her slender, sporty body and the smell of liquor on her like an overcoat. Crane hesitated, slowly lowering the aerosol can and frowning darkly at the offensive odour. But it was not her appearance or her scent that interested him. It was the lighter she held in her hand. She seemed to hold it like a natural, and not just for the purpose of lighting cigarettes, either. He stared at the lighter in her hand. She held it like he held it, like a toy, or an obsession. His crystalline eyes returned to her face. This girl was just like him… alone, not quite right in the head, and burning with an insatiable affinity for fire.

He held the aerosol can at his side, staring at her, looking her up and down. Her appearance could use some work - as could her lifestyle, but that would come later - but other than that, she looked like she would be the perfect addition to what was quickly becoming something of a posse. Crane almost grinned here. Of course, there were always posses of villains… the Sinister Six, the Hellfire Club, the Brotherhood… but those only existed in comic-books. He had read some of those as a teenager, after he had broken free from his horrific family, back before he had become fascinated by the field of psychology, and specifically the element of fear, to which he had dedicated his life. There was nothing wrong with being the "bad guy", especially when the "good guy" pranced around in brightly-coloured spandex, or a spider suit.

He chuckled here. He could not help himself. Gotham's own saviour, Batman, was almost as odd as the so-called heroes of the comic books he had read as a teen, if not more.

Butofcourse, Crane reasoned, if one of the people in their group tried to think up some kind of clever name for their group, there would be blood. He was not about to fall into the realm of "ridiculous", like that clown, Napier. Napier was a child, still, and knew nothing of Gotham. If he did, then he would know that anyone who stayed in character twenty-four / seven was at least ten times more likely to get caught than those who led double-lives, like Crane once did. He had been discovered, thanks to Batman and that pesky reporter Rachel Dawes, but he still managed to strike fear into the hearts of the masses, even without his alter-ego, Scarecrow, to assist him.

He stared at the girl, considering her, looking her up and down. Then he stared her right in the eyes. "I think," he finally said, slowly, "I may have a use for you."

Flick's hand went in the air, flicking the tiny flame on her lighter to life as she turned. Okay, so she had to admit she hadn't expected _that_.

The few moments of tense silence allowed her a better look at Lighter-man. From close up, she felt a burning desire to kick that nasty suit into submission, burn it with a few gallons of lighter fluid, and leave it for the birds. His hair, too...she decided that it might look a bit nicer than she'd thought if it was just trimmed (and washed). He carried an aerosol spray can (she idly wondered if the substance was flammable; most were, and they made the most delightful explosions when lit). And Jesus, he was such a _girl_; she was _almost_ taller than him. Her bad luck insisted, though, that they stand at about the same height.

The eyes caught her, though, before she was able to scamper off into the darkness. They were all blue and shiny and almost shimmering in the glow of her lighter. And they seemed to be looking right through her, at her essence or something. She shook her head carefully, wondering if that was the hangover talking.

Something about the whole effect felt vaguely familiar. It was like she'd seen his face before, but she couldn't place it. She shrugged the feeling off and shuffled uncomfortably under his appraising gaze. From what she'd just seen, this guy was a real loonie.

And likely a rapist.

So when he noted that he "might have a use for her," she immediately bristled. "Listen, buddy," she began as she took a step backward, "I don't give a shit what you do with your free time. Back the fuck off, though, or you're going to have a faceful of hurt." She patted her pocket for the reassuring lump that was a pack of matches and wished she had lighter fluid. "You ever had a lit match shoved in your eye?"

That caused her to pause giggle. A sudden image of Lighter-man jumping around like crazy with his stupid suit on fire entered her thoughts, and she almost lost it completely.

Crane had felt the humidity in the air that meant a storm was coming. That was what had set him off into his arson mode. Rain always made Crane want to burn something… almost a desire to defy nature.

He stared at the girl, listening intently to her words, and at her last question, a smirk split his face. "Have you ever been tazored in the face?" he asked, meeting her challenging words. "It's rather a bit more painful than a match. And don't worry, you're not going to be part of anything… questionable." He grinned at her, crossing his arms over his shallow chest and staring straight at her. "I assume you like to burn things," he said slowly. "How would you like to do it… professionally?" His grin widened. "All expenses payed." He could see that his offer was tempting to her, but she still seemed to be holding back. "And I won't lay a finger on you," he added in as a finishing touch.

He knew he had sold her. He smiled inwardly to himself, congratulating himself on a job well done, when a drop of rain fell onto one of his glasses-lenses, dribbling down the clean glass and obscuring his vision. He removed the glasses, looked at them, and watched as a few more raindrops hit their glassy surface. He sighed, looked up at the sky, then wiped his glasses on his jacket and looked back at the girl. "I think we should go inside for now," he said. "And discuss this further… at least, until the rain lets up." He held out a hand, indicating the inside of the warehouse. "Ladies first," he said sarcastically.

The rain started as a slight drizzle, then quickly grew into a harsh downpour. Crane stayed hidden in a corner of the abandoned warehouse, his narrow shoulder-blades tightening together as he leaned into the slender point of the wall, his luminous glasses, reflecting the light of the flame of his lighter, the only visible thing about him. He clicked the lighter on and off, watching the others with suspicious, icy eyes, his striking European features thrown into sharp detail for a few seconds every so often before descending into darkness again._ Clik, clik_ went the lighter. On, off, on, off. He wanted to burn something.

The little girl was starting to look like a very tempting target.

But he knew he needed her for later, so he remained silent, clicking the lighter open and closed with a meticulous, practiced, metronome-like continuity. Maybe later… maybe once he had accomplished what he was going to do with the woman and her little brat, then maybe he could burn them. That would be the icing on the cake… adding insult to injury. He grinned wickedly, clicking the lighter on and off. Yes, he decided. That would be the thing to do. Use them, and then kill them.

That would be the perfect end to an already tragic story.

Jonathan Crane should have been a writer.


	11. Chapter Ten

Jack Napier, on the other hand, should have been an entertainer.

That was the only thought that kept running through Napier's head as he staggered through the back streets of Gotham. There had been enough explosions today to satisfy his daily dose, and, though neither one had been his fault, he felt that he was now entitled to some time off. Batman could deal with those, and then, when he was free again, Napier would give him something to worry about. But for now, all Napier could think about was the fact that his life would have been so much different had he just gone into the more glamorous life of an entertainer - he could have been anything, a singer, an actor, a musician, it did not matter. He would never have gotten into the mess he was in today if he had had a high-paying, glamorous job. Kitty would still be alive, and he would still be handsome and sane.

Whenever something happened in Gotham that was out of the ordinary, the crime rate spiked. When Jim's store had exploded, both stores on either side of it had been raided and wiped out by thieves taking advantage of the law focusing their attention on only the one store. Napier had managed to slip into one of the stores, grab a handy bottle of liquor to celebrate the presence of other loonies as touched in the head as he was in Gotham, and vanish without drawing police attention.

It had not been something to be proud of, nicking something worth less than one C from some convenience store, but Napier was not out to impress.

He had retreated back to his hideout to contemplate his plan of action, taking one of his knives and popping open the bottle of liquor. He had shed his heavy coat for the time, stashing his suitcase in a corner underneath it, and went to sit on the stoop of his hideout, his tan elbows resting on his knees, the heavy bottle dangling in his hand. He had sat like that for a while, just thinking, swinging the bottle slowly, like a pendulum. The sound of faint thunder had reached his ears, and he looked up at the grey sky of Gotham. It was always grey; that did not mean that it was going to rain. He raised the bottle to his lips and took a long, refreshing drink, then wiped his mouth with his forearm. A bit of his makeup came off when he did that, making a red-and-white streak down his arm, but he did not pay it any mind. He was not going to be seen in public, and he did not have to look at himself, so it did not matter if his face paint came off. He could just put it back on later.

He stood, holding the bottle at his side, and had started wandering aimlessly down the alley, towards the backstreets of Gotham, every so often bringing the bottle to his mouth for a draft of the liquor. It had been so long since he had had anything of an intoxicating nature, and, as little as he would have liked to admit it, it was refreshing. The light drizzle of rain began, but Napier ignored it, looking around at his surroundings and every so often drinking from his bottle.

By now, the rain was pouring down hard, but Napier could hardly tell. He weaved when he walked, every so often putting a tan hand against an alley wall to catch his balance. The bottle was almost empty; he had stoppered it with his thumb to prevent rainwater from getting into it. He leaned against an alley wall and took a swig from the bottle, then let it drop back to his side with a heavy sigh. The rain had washed away all of his face paint, and his hair stuck, wet, to his face, obscuring his vision in one eye. He pushed the wet swatch of hair out of his eye, but it just fell stubbornly back into place. He pushed himself off from the wall and continued his stumbling way to wherever it was he was heading.

Finally, he got to a place he vaguely recognized. He stood in the street, the rain pouring down on him, trying to hold his unsteady footing as he examined the area with blurry eyes. He could not quite place what the place was, but he was sure he had been there before. He stumbled, took a final swig of the bottle, and then let it drop to the ground from his limp fingers. He tried to catch his balance, but had to hold out a hand for a wall before he got it back. He ran a forearm across his mouth, wiping away what the rain had already attended to, then stared out at the street, trying to figure out why he was there, and where exactly 'there' was.

"Fuck," he slurred, his tongue thick. His voice had returned to the deeper, more human tone he had taken in the car ride with Maria. It was impossible to uphold the put-on Joker voice at this point. He looked up at the sky, squeezing his eyes shut and feeling the rain fall on his numb face, then looked back out into the street. What had possessed him to do this? Could he _be_ any stupider? With his luck, he would be arrested for public drunkenness, brought to the police station, recognized, and locked up for the rest of his life. He pushed himself off from the wall, but lost his balance and fell back against the wall again. Then he saw something in the street he had not noticed, before, mostly because of the rain, and he staggered, reeling, away from the wall to the spot on the ground, where he fell to his knees and reached out a clumsy hand to inspect it.

It was blood. There was blood ingrained in the street, that the rain had not yet been able to wash away. He put a hand to it, then lifted his hand to look at it, but the blood was ingrained in the street, and none got on his skin. He looked back at the bloodstain on the street, and suddenly, it hit him. He tried to stand again, but lost his balance and fell gracelessly onto his rear. "Fucking…" he muttered, trying again to regain his feet, and, after making his way to the wall and pulling himself up on it, he was able to get back to his feet, if very unsteadily. He wavered, staring at the spot of blood on the street, then pointed limply at it. "Tha'wus my guy," he slurred to no one in particular. "An'then…" He stumbled back a few paces, shading his eyes against the rain as he looked up, then pointed to the roof of the building opposite. "She shot'im."

He stared up at the building, stumbling slightly, then bent, picked up the empty liquor bottle, and threw it against the side of the building, where it shattered. "HEY, YOUFUCKIN'… YOU!" he shouted at the top of his voice, his words slurring together, "YOU KNOWHO Y'ARE! YOU THINKYER SUCH A… FUCKIN' CRACKSHOT!" He swayed on his feet, trying to regain his balance, then staggered forward a step, still shouting to the building, "YOUWANNA FUCK WI'ME? YOU WANNA?! COME N' FUCKIN' GET ME, THEN!"

He reeled forward, losing his balance, and caught his balance on the wall. Christ, he was going to pass out. He put a hand over his face, trying to keep his balance against the wall, but slowly slid down it. "Shit," he said under his breath, burying his face in his hands.

Kitty would have been ashamed of what he had become.

But, then again, he did not have to worry about what Kitty thought… ever again.

Jeanette's belly was full of stuffed ravioli and red wine, her mind was full of good memories involving the hotel's massive pool and a very attractive blonde American, and her eyes were full of the most pathetic thing she'd ever seen.

She stood in the entryway of the Radisson Hotel, arms crossed over her chest and eyebrows knit together with a mixture of confusion, pity, and disgust. Jack Napier was shouting at the hotel. Judging by the empty bottle he'd thrown, he was absolutely and totally drunk. Jeanette sighed and frowned. This wasn't exactly how she'd planned their first meeting, but circumstance made it a necessity. Drunk people had a horrid tendency of running into trouble, and she couldn't afford to lose her future business partner.

She stepped out into the street and opened her (you guessed it) black umbrella. She hated the rain. It created complications; the current situation was the perfect example. Plus, it tended to ruin her hair and clothing. She cautiously stopped a few feet before the sitting man (he probably had a few dozen blades stuffed into his socks) and looked him over with a somewhat sympathetic face.

"You called?"

Napier looked up at the blurred figure who stood before him, his mouth hanging slightly open.

"You called?"

Her voice sounded distorted, distant. He tried to stand, paused, then dragged himself up the wall until he stood before her. He was taller than she was, but that was to be expected. He steadied himself with a hand on the wall. He had never gotten this embarrassingly drunk before; he had not expected anyone to see him like this. He had gotten tipsy at his wedding, and perhaps a few times other than that, but he had never lost motor or speech control before. Now he was just struggling to stay conscious.

"Yeah," he slurred, trying to regain his head, but failing miserably. "I… I did." He put his other hand on the wall, struggling to stay standing. If he could just make it to a bed, or any kind of covered surface out of harm's way, he would be in business. But first there was this woman to be dealt with. He indicated in her general direction. "Youfuckin'… shot wunnamy guys." He pointed limply towards the bloodstain. "Righ'there," he said. He swallowed, turning his red-rimmed eyes back to her. "Idun forgive thinzlike'at too easy."

His voice was thick, and he stumbled over his words, blurring them together. Of course she could tell that he was hopelessly wasted, but he at least hoped that he would be able to impress on her that he could be a force to be reckoned with, even under questionable conditions. Unfortunately, though, his attempt was proving to be a dismal failure. He leaned against the wall, closing his eyes, breathing shallowly, trying to stay conscious. He could not, he would not, pass out in front of this woman. That would be like a slap to the face for whatever pride he could still lay claim to, which was not much, considering.

"I'mnot a misr'ble drunkard," he mumbled, "I'mnot, I'mnot…" He opened his eyes and looked at her again. "An' Iwanna impress sunthin on you," he said, pointing at her. Then he paused, staring at her, and a strange, surprised expression crossed his face. "Ohshit," he slurred. He put a hand to his chest, coughed, then leaned over away from her and vomited onto the pavement.

He paused, wiping his mouth with a shaky hand, then turned back to face her, a sad expression on his face that indicated his years of pain, and he searched her face with his dark eyes, taking in her blurry features as well as he could. He stared at her, silent, for a long moment, the only sound the rain pouring down on the dreary Gotham street, Napier standing there, soaking wet, hopelessly intoxicated, staring at her like a child in a commercial asking for money for a third-world country.

"Help me," he said quietly.

He took a step forward, towards her, then his face went slack, his eyes fluttered shut, and he fell back against the wall, sliding down it into a wet heap at the bottom.

Jeanette listened to the washed-up Joker's slurred rant with growing black humor. _He's struggling to stay upright...hell, _conscious_...just to tell me that he's mad that I killed one of his goons?_ She was having trouble believing a man like him would become sentimental about any of the criminals he worked with, so maybe it was just pride that was making him so angry. Men and their stupid egos. If they loved them so much, why not do a better job of protecting them?

Then he passed out, and she almost groaned. Now what? She couldn't very well leave him out here; he could get pneumonia and die, or get mugged. _Damn. Damn, damn, damn._ She collected herself as she snapped the umbrella shut, leaving it on the sidewalk to free up both of her hands. Carefully avoiding the pool of vomit nearby with a wrinkled nose, she put a hand under his arms and tugged with all of her strength. She got him about a foot off the ground before his weight really got to her; not wanting to risk dropping the man, she lowered him back down. _Damn, damn, __damn__._ It seemed she wasn't quite strong enough to pick up his over-six-foot-weight. But she couldn't very well get some help; those scars around his mouth were too noticeable, and would invite unwanted questions.

She braced herself, scowled, and tried again, this time managing to get him in a standing position and one of his arms over her shoulders. She didn't think she'd ever felt smaller; the man was a _behemoth_. She huffed and hummed a bit under his weight, but finally got her footing and made her way to the service entrance along the side of the building. Thankfully she'd nabbed one of the keys from a passing maid one of her first days at the hotel. She fumbled with the key for a moment before shoving it into the lock and opening the door quietly. Getting up the service elevator to her floor was easy; no one was awake by this time of night, and those who were had gone out partying.

Back at the suite she faced her last dilemma. _Couch or bed?_ She was half-tempted to just dump him on the couch, which was both a lot closer and a lot less comfortable, and go to bed, but instead she rolled her eyes and lugged him into her bedroom. She dropped him on the queen-sized mattress and cleared away everything personal from the room. Then she turned back to Napier. His clothes were absolutely soaked; he was as likely to catch pneumonia from them as from the storm outside. She gritted her teeth and carefully removed his shirt, tie, and pants, leaving the boxers where they were. She tossed the clothes to a corner of the room. Taking a moment to inspect her handiwork, she finally nodded and took a book with her out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

What the hell was going on? Jeanette opened the door of the full-sized refrigerator in the kitchen and searched through it for a carton of orange juice. She'd planned on sending one of the Joker's own thugs to deliver her offer. This whole episode was crazy. She now had a completely wasted mentally unstable man sleeping in the bed of her hotel room. She got a glass from one of the wooden cupboards and dumped the rest of the carton into it. Orange juice was supposed to help hangovers, and God only knew what sort of hangover her guest would have when he woke up. She left it on the island connecting the kitchen to the living space and took an exhausted seat on the couch.

She cracked open her book and could only focus on the fact that its title was "The Keys to Secrecy" before she was out, still wearing her black dress pants and crimson ruffled top from that night.


	12. Chapter Eleven

Flicker's eyes had gone wide and an impressed grin had settled on her mouth as she'd followed Lighter-man inside. A tazer she'd gone through, and it hurt like fuck when it had shocked her back. She couldn't imagine taking one to the _face_. That, along with the more important promise of money, totally sold the girl.

Now, however, she was regretting her decision a bit. During any regular storm she'd be tearing through the streets in some old tennies. Running helped get the energy out of her veins, and now, with no outlet, she was quivering and twitching like a psycho. She paced continually back and forth and drummed her fingers on her thighs, eyeing the storm outside with a bit of longing. She hummed few notes of "Singing in the Rain." If only she could go dance outside. Or start a fire.

She settled for snapping at her most recent business partner. "Stop it," she said in a peevish tone, eyeing the lighter in his hands with annoyance. "You're giving me a fucking headache." She paused by a wall and leaned back, resting against it for a moment. But only a moment, because the next second she'd bounced off of it and continued her pacing. "Whazzyer names, anyways?" she finally asked, if only to break the silence. Neither one of the men had spoken.

Charles looked up from his position on the floor only when he was addressed. The girl's pacing was driving him absolutely nuts. If it was up to him, Crane would have just gotten rid of her. What could she help them with anyways? Still, politeness was a virtue, so he mumbled, "Charles" and turned his face to the door.

"Good to meet you, Charlie-boy," she said with far too much enthusiasm, flashing him a huge, childish smile. It was very obvious that her mannerisms were driving him up the fucking wall. Charles just scowled deeply and looked away.

She shrugged and settled back against the wall again. "Flicker," she said, tapping her own head with one index finger. "And when you say all expenses paid, you _are_ talking 'bout money, right?" she asked Lighter-man, wondering a bit about what he meant. You never knew with sickos like this, and as far as she was concerned she was the most attractive female around these parts.

Crane paused in clicking the lighter on and off, the little flame illuminating his face, and stared at the girl. "Doctor Crane," he said stiffly. "Flicker." He stepped forward into the light, pocketing the lighter, his eyes travelling slowly over to Goodhart, then back to Flicker. "All expenses paid," he said slowly, "means that I will pay for your pyrotechnics." He stared at her, and a slight, bitter smirk started to hint at the corners of his mouth. "What did you _think_ it meant?" he asked, arching an eyebrow at her.

He turned away from her, slipping his hands into his pockets. "We're all professionals, here," he said pointedly in his quiet, thoughtful voice. "We won't have any… distractions deterring us from getting what we need to get done, done." He turned back to her, thoughtfully. "And besides," he added, "I'm just not that attracted to you." He smirked at her, then turned back around and approached Goodhart, Kitty, and Jeannie Rose, who somehow managed to stay asleep throughout the entire ordeal. Crane stared at the little girl, and his features turned down into a frown. He hated children.

"Well, I might as well fill you two in," he said, jerking his head to the side. He pulled his hands from his pockets and folded them behind his back, meditatively. "The man we're looking for is called Jack Napier." He turned and stared at Kitty, who was watching him with red-rimmed eyes. He smirked. "We find Jack Napier," he said, "we show him that we have his wife and child…" Kitty looked shocked at this, and turned to look at Jeannie Rose, who continued sleeping peacefully.

"Jack Napier…?" she whispered, turning back to Crane.

Crane ignored her. "Once we've done that," he said, turning back to his two associates, "the two of you are free to do what you like with them. They're no longer any concern of mine."

Kitty stared at him. "_What?_" she asked, breathless.

Crane waved her off again. "Don't look so fretful, Kitty," he said, savouring her name. "You're not in any danger…" He smirked at her. "Yet."

"Doctor Crane..." Flick stopped tapping her fingers for a moment and tugged her earlobe instead. The name sounded familiar, too. Where the hell had she heard...?

And then she realized it. "OH, you're the psycho who gassed the Narrows a few weeks ago," she said, tipping her head back to laugh. "I saw pics of you in the loony bin. You're one fucked-up little lad, aren't you?" Yeah, she'd heard of this guy. Apparently he'd been tazered in the face by none other than lawyer Rachel Dawes. She grinned. That made the story a whole lot less impressive.

The laughter died away and her expression turned to an insulted one. _Well_ then, that cleared things up. She crossed her arms and turned her face away from Crane. Why she was insulted by this, she didn't know. Maybe because she was used to the clubber boys falling over themselves over her. She self-consciously tugged at a lock of her blonde hair and pretended to ignore the rest of what he said.

"What's _with_ your obsession?" she finally asked. "Who's this Jack Napier guy? He owe you money or something?" It was weird, too, that the woman didn't seem to know who Napier was. Especially if she was supposed to be his wife.

Charles Goodhart ground his teeth in irritation. He was going to throttle both of them. Flicker, for being an annoying, vain, stupid little punk who wouldn't shut up; Crane, for not doing what he'd promised. All Charles wanted to do was find and get rid of his daughter; was it too much to ask? Little distractions like this thing with Napier was only slowing down the process.

He decided to remind Crane of their real job. "After that we get Maria, then...?"

Crane's jaw locked when he heard her airily toss out terms like 'psycho' and 'loony bin', but when she called him a 'fucked-up little lad', he snapped. He turned back to her, a tight, bitter grimace on his face, his crystalline eyes boring through her. "I," he said, slowly and dangerously, "am a respected psychologist, and I do nothing that is not for the good of research." He smoothed back a lock of hair that had fallen out of place. "My interlude at the mental institution was an unfortunate hindrance," he said, choosing his words carefully, "but I am no longer there, and that's all that matters." He cleared his throat, regaining his haughty composure.

"Jack Napier," he said in a somewhat condescending tone, "is a man who thinks he's so clever that he can outwit Gotham, Batman, and fate, itself." He smoothed the front of his jacket. "He's a little touched in the head," he added with a slight, ironic grin.

Kitty stared at him. "Touched…?" she asked.

Crane turned to her. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said, "you have no idea, do you?" His horrid grin widened. "Well, miss, your husband wears clown makeup and carries a semi-automatic. He's a little loopy… calls himself _the Joker_." He chuckled at Kitty's horrified expression. "Tall man, strong," Crane added, "brown eyes, like your daughter's." Then, pausing for effect, he added "…With a mangled face, and green hair." He smirked. "And did I mention he's crazy?" he added with a slight, amused jerk of the head.

Kitty looked mortified. "You're lying," she said. "You're lying!"

Crane shook his head. "I couldn't make that up if I tried," he told her.

Kitty looked away, her eyes wide and dull with shock. "That's impossible…" she whispered. "That's… _impossible_."

Crane grinned at Kitty's horrified reaction, then turned to Goodhart. "Yes, your daughter," he said slowly. "Well, as soon as Napier is taken care of, I don't see why we can't set up a little search party… and see if we can't smoke her out." He smirked, turning away from them and walking back into the shadows. "Don't worry," he said. "Everything will happen in due time… just let nature take its course."

Then he turned back to them, his glasses flashing in the wan light. "But there's no saying we can't help nature out a bit," he added with a terrible smile.

_PFFFFFFFFFT._ As if that wasn't an _admission_ that he was missing a few screws. Flick just smiled again and tilted her head back with her eyes shut. Crane had one of those big egos you heard about; this might be fun.

So the Joker's name was Jack Napier. The guy was all the rage with crooks in the Narrows nowadays. You couldn't talk about the greatest jig of the month without his name being dragged up. And, maybe even more than Crane, Napier was one sick puppy. Flicker swore she'd seen him once at night while heading back to her apartment, and it was not a welcome experience. He was a hulking guy, probably over six foot, who wore clown makeup like a crown. They hadn't looked at each other but, even from across the street, Flick had gotten the eerie feeling that he was _not_ someone to mess around with.

And he was this lady's husband. She felt a touch of sympathy for the poor girl; finding out one's boyfriend or more was a psychopath was hard news. She'd learned that lesson herself a few years ago. Ricky had been carted off to Arkham before you could say "lunatic", and she'd cried about it for almost an hour.

Whatever. The chick would get over it.

Flick was also curious about this business of Charles' daughter. The thought of "smoking her out" made the girl's fingers twitch towards her pocketed lighter, but she still wondered why they had to find her. "She run away from home or something?" she asked the man.

Charles had accepted Crane's words with a pinch of sugar. If they got this Napier business sorted out quickly, that just meant they'd find Maria quickly. Better throw his whole effort into it.

He tilted his head back towards the "Flicker" girl and frowned. Did he want to explain this to a complete stranger? Whatever. Maybe she could help find his daughter as well. "Something like that," he said at last.


	13. Chapter Twelve

"_I can't promise you a million dollars, but I can promise you the stars,"__ he told her as they slow-danced, her head resting on his chest, her little hand nestled perfectly in his large, tan one, his hand resting on her waist. She was barely tall enough to dance with him, but she did not care, and neither did he. She smiled._

_"How can you promise me that?"__ she asked. __"The stars are so far away."_

_"I don't care,"__ he said, __"I'll reach up and take them from the sky, just for you, one by one."__ He nestled his face in her hair, which smelled of Kangaroo Paw flower, his favourite._

_She smiled. __"At least you'd be more able to do it than I would,"__ she said with a slight giggle._

_He looked at her, smiling. __"Was that a crack at my height?"__ She shook her head. __"I think it was,"__ he said, chuckling, putting his face back in her soft hair, __"I think you were making fun of me for being tall. You know what that's called?"_

_"No, I do not know what that is called,"__ she answered with a kind of Doctor Seuss lilt in her voice._

_"Well, that's called being… tallist,"__ he answered, seeming awkward in his answer, as if he had not thought it over before it came out of his mouth._

_She looked at him, a sceptical grin on her face. __"What?"__ she asked._

_"You heard me,"__ he said, running with it, __"tallist. You, Kitty Napier, are a tallist."_

_She put her head on his chest again. __"You're drunk,"__ she chuckled, closing her eyes._

_He sighed, kissing her on top of her head. __"Just a little,"__ he said with a smile._

_"Mm,"__ she said with a satisfied exhale, __"Kitty Napier. I like the sound of that."_

_He rested his cheek against her head. __"Me, too,"__ he said quietly._

. . .

The first thing Napier realized when he woke up was that his head was splitting. More than that, his tongue felt fuzzy, and his ears were ringing. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut, and grabbed one of the pillows on the bed and covered his head with it. "Kitty, I don't feel well," he mumbled, muted by the pillow. "Can you call into my workplace and tell them I won't be coming in today?" His request was met with silence. He reached out a hand to shake his wife awake, but felt no one in the bed with him. He took the pillow off his head and looked over at the other side of the bed to find it empty, with no human indent in sight.

He brought the pillow to his chest, holding it tightly in his arms as he looked around the room. "This isn't my room," he said quietly, his speech drawling a bit. In fact, this room was much nicer than any room he would have ever owned. He stared around in wonder at the high ceiling, wide walls, and the comfortable bedding on the bed, itself, his mouth hanging slightly open in a dazed, hung-over stupor. "Who did I fuck to get _here_?" he asked, mostly to himself, his eyes taking in the room in a stunned arch.

He idly scratched at his collar-bone, then looked down, suddenly realizing that he was almost naked, save for his boxers that whoever had stripped him of his clothes had been decent enough to leave on. He put a dazed hand to his bare chest, gripping the pillow with his other hand, and stood from the bed. He wavered and fell back into a sitting position. Damn hangover… he should not have drunk so much the day before. If he had not, maybe he would know where the hell he was. He stared down at his bare arms, his bare chest, his bare legs in fascination. It had been so long since he had seen himself like this… He lifted his foot and looked at it, enthralled. He was human, after all.

He stood from the bed, this time pausing to catch his rather thrown off balance, and then, still holding onto the pillow, he started to explore the house. It was a huge apartment complex, or hotel room, one; it was not large enough to be a house, but it was large enough. In fact, to Napier, who was used to a two-room apartment or an abandoned warehouse as a place to lay his head, it was enormous. He looked around in wonder at the house, and, seeing a glass of orange juice sitting on the counter, he picked it up and took a sip. It was a start, at least. Maybe he would request some black coffee later, if his host was willing. That always did the trick for him.

He wandered out of the kitchen, still holding the pillow in one hand and the glass of orange juice in the other, feeling like a large, curious child - albeit, a large, curious child with a hangover. He took another sip of orange juice, peering into an open doorway, into what seemed to be an office. He licked his lips, looking around at the office, but decided to respect the privacy of whoever owned the place and kept out of it. Then he found the bathroom at the end of the hall. He flicked on the light and found himself staring at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror. He frowned, then quickly turned the light off again and walked out of the bathroom, still nursing the glass of orange juice.

He held the pillow pinned to his chest like a stuffed animal, meandering through the various rooms of the house, until he finally got to what he assumed was the living-room. He stared around at it, drinking his orange juice, then stopped, surprised, when he saw a female figure asleep on the couch. He quirked a curious eyebrow. Who was she, and what was she doing on the couch? He cautiously inched towards her, then reached out a hand and gently shook her shoulder.

He jumped back when she woke up, instantly moving the pillow to cover his crotch - even though it did not really need to be covered - and winced as it came in contact, hard. He bit his lip, grimacing slightly, gripping the glass of orange juice, his feet turning in slightly. He gritted his teeth, trying not to look too obvious, but it was too late. She would think he was a fool, and he would have to kill her.

He hated mornings like this.

Mornings were when Jeanette was at her most shameful.

She scrunched her eyes more tightly closed and turned away from the bothersome hand. "Mmmmark, I'm still _tired_," she moaned with a grin, thoughts obviously still stuck on the blonde college boy from the pool the day before. She reached up to her hair, which was a tangled mess, and tugged on the ends, flipping her head so that it fell in a curtain over her face. Stuffing her face into the crook of her elbow, she told herself to just ignore him; the sun was already out, though, which meant that it was far too late to be sleeping in. She rolled to turn onto her side and almost fell off the edge of the couch.

At that point, something clicked and her eyes shot wide open.

Her legs swung over the edge of the couch and her bare feet settled on the floor, while she rubbed her hand across her eyes. It seemed Napier was awake. And almost naked. She propped her hands on her knees and hunched forward. Then she noticed the pained expression on his face, the pillow covering his privates, put two and two together, and almost laughed. Almost. Instead, she tactfully chose to ignore his discomfort. "Good morning."

The niceties taken care of, she stood and headed to the kitchen. The fridge held a few cans of Starbucks iced coffee and apples in the bottom drawer. She took one of each and nudged the door shut with her foot. Hopefully the great Joker could take care of himself for a few measly minutes, because Jeanette was _not_ going without some sort of breakfast. She popped open the coffee and took three deep gulps before the caffeine finally reached her system.

_Ahhhh._

She leaned back in her chair and looked into the other room. "Mr. Napier, you were drunk last night," she finally said. "Remember anything?" She toyed with the apple as she spoke. On second thought, maybe she'd just hold off until lunch for some food. After all, it was (she glanced at the clock on the microwave) already eleven.

He let the pillow drop to the ground, still clutching the glass of juice. He nodded, painfully, biting his lip, then straightened out his posture and stared at her with a strained expression of normality. "No," he said truthfully, shaking his head. "I don't remember _anything_." He crossed to the couch that she had thankfully gotten up from. He put the cool glass in his lap, hoping she would not notice, then looked back up at her. "But I believe you," he said, putting his head in his hand. He recognized the woman as the assassin who shot his crony, but the least he could do was try to be some semblance of civil, at least while she still held his clothes - the only set he owned. He could not very well terrorize the streets of Gotham in his boxers.

He almost chuckled at this, as he imagined himself walking into a confrontation with Batman, carrying a semi-automatic rifle and wearing nothing but his boxers. The expression on the confused do-gooder's face was enough to put a smile on Napier's own. Wouldn't _that_ be an interesting showdown!

He looked back up at her, wincing as she opened and closed the refrigerator, the sound reverberating in his head. "I'll bet I was a sight," he said, more to himself than to her. He considered drinking more of his orange juice, but then decided to leave the glass in his lap. "I haven't…" he began, then stopped. He was going to say that he had not done anything like that in over five years, but she did not need to know that. He cleared his throat, then looked up at her. "I haven't forgotten what you did to my guy," he said, taking on a rather sharper tone. "He was a good guy, too." He nodded, wondering where he was going with this. Then he sighed, putting his head back in his hand. "Aw, fuck it," he said, "I never liked him, anyways."

He was starting to recover a bit, at least in his lower half, so he brought the now-warm glass of orange juice to his lips and took a drink. "Speaking of which," he said, indicating her with the glass, "you didn't have to take pity on me. I mean, if I was really as drunk as all that, you could've just left me there. I'm sure I would've sobered up eventually." He took another drink of orange juice, running his fingers through his strangely soft, clean hair. Had she showered him, too? That was a little strange. He did not remember getting wet. He decided to drop it.

He took another sip, then swirled the liquid around in the bottom of the glass. "Or you could've turned me in to the cops," he said with a shrug. Though really, he thought, she would have to try pretty hard. Between height and brawn, he was at least twice her size. He lowered the glass, which was almost empty by now. "So why'd you do it?" he asked.

That was the real question. He listened intently, wondering what could have possibly driven her to help someone like him… besides some kind of sinister ulterior motive.

What surprised her most about Napier, she thought as she sipped her iced coffee, was how normal he was acting.

All of his behavior up to this point had nodded towards psychological issues. Then again, this current bout of calmness could as well. Maybe he was bipolar, or had multiple personalities. Both interesting possibilities that she'd have to ponder. But not now; later, when she had a computer and a block of free time.

Shaking the last few drops of her drink onto her tongue, she looked consideringly at Napier. Pity? He was actually admitting that a woman had pitied him? That officially made him the first man she'd ever met who wasn't a complete ass. Which was weird, because he was certainly the most intimidating. "I figured it wouldn't be good to let a future business partner die of pneumonia," she said simply, heading to the trash can and dropping the coffee container into it.

Then she paused, eyes moving to the open windows. It was already too late in the day to get started with her usual routine, but she couldn't afford to miss her stretching. A glance at Napier was all she took before she dropped to the ground in push-up position with a dull thud. He'd just have to deal with it. Her tone adopted a bit of humor as she asked between push-ups, "I don't really look the type to turn someone in to the cops, do I?"

He watched her as she dropped to the floor and started her push-ups, his eyes unintentionally drawn to her duff as her body pumped up and down. He nodded, watching her. "You can say _that_ again," he said. He felt like a fucking slug; he kneaded his forehead with his knuckles, groaning slightly. He knew that if he did not have this splitting hangover, he would not be quite as lacklustre. But, at the moment, going back to bed for the next twenty years sounded like a better idea than getting out and wreaking havoc.

He had to be the worst villain ever right about now.

He stared at his glass of orange juice, that was just about empty by now. He had heard a number of things helped with a hangover, among them orange juice, black coffee, and Alka-Seltzer, but then another option came to mind: a glass of liquor would certainly numb the hangover. He pushed the thought from his head. He was thinking like an alcoholic… an addict. That was something he had promised that he would never see himself become again. He remembered all too clearly the days when he stumbled through life, only half-aware of his surroundings, his eyes dilated, his vision always only half-clear, his slow, drawling speech, and the way he only felt normal when he had had a good fix. He had become a joke. He would not let that happen to him again.

Though, he had to admit, sighing at the stabbing pain in his head, that glass of liquor was sounding very tempting. Just one glass in the morning did not make him an alcoholic… right?

Then he looked up at her. "Pneumonia?" he asked, slightly blurry. He paused, thinking about it. "Well, shit, I'm not _that_ stupid," he mumbled. "And plus, why would I have gotten pneumonia in the first - " Then something else she said hit him. "Wait, _future business partner?_" he asked. He scoffed. "What the fuck _are_ you, a bank? A law firm? What do you mean, business partner?" He stared at her, his head still resting in his hand, but the pain of his hangover had been somewhat interrupted by this strange statement.

She puffed out a breath of air and removed one hand from underneath her, tucking it in a fist behind her back. Jesus, she shouldn't have waited so long to do these; her muscles were burning already, and there wasn't a worse feeling than being out of shape. A late night was no excuse; she swore that if she broke a sweat, she'd do an extra fifty.

She almost lost her balance at Napier's suggestions, she laughed so hard. Good God, now she was laughing? She really had to get a grip. "A law firm? Honestly?" She paused long enough to tilt her head up and half-smile, half-grimace at him, before returning to her work with a shake of her head. "Hardly. Just a _very_ bored multi-billionaire."

Jeanette didn't think of herself as arrogant, really. She just told it like it was. Her father, nice man that he was (she snickered at that; being one of the Italian mob bosses did not a nice man make), had been keeping her in comfort with a veritable fortune since she'd left home. She'd gone on to add to that fortune with various activities. Maybe others would consider them unsavory, or just plain sick. She didn't particularly care what other people thought of her profession. It paid well, allowed her a life of luxury and comfort, and kept life exciting, all in one.

A pretty good deal if you asked her.

"I just figured I had some talents you might find...useful." She paused and kept facing the floor so that her hair covered her smile. Hadn't she used that same line with that sweetie at the pool, Mark? She shook the thoughts away and focused on the dull ache in her arms. "Any interest?"

He was tempted to make a sexual remark about her 'special talents', but decided against it. "Mm-hmm," he said, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. "Of course. Let's just hook up out of the blue. It's not like I'm mentally unstable and homeless and you're ridiculously independent and high-maintenance or anything."

He looked up at her. "I hope you were joking," he said. "Because one, I work alone… and two, you're in no condition to join me. I mean, look at you - look at this place." He indicated in a sweep, then looked back at her, sceptical. "You have no idea what it's like out there on the streets of Gotham." he said. "You live in the lap of luxury, and the lap of luxury has a major boner for you. Not that I blame it," he added as an afterthought, "but you're just not suited to work with people like me."

He stood up from the couch, crossed into the kitchen, and leaned against the counter, setting his orange juice glass down on the counter and watching her doing her push-ups. "Why don't you and Bruce Wayne get together?" he suggested mockingly. "I hear he's single, and very rich. The two of you could do something together… compile your money and buy Spain or something." He half-grinned, the twisted corner of his mouth turning up into a smirk. "At least that would be more productive than trying to keep up with me."

Napier looked up from her and scanned her kitchen. "I'm gonna look around," he told her. It was not a question, it was a statement. Even though she was there on the tiles doing her G.I. Jane stunts, which he had to admit were impressive and a little intimidating, he still felt that, if it came down to it, he could still take her out, even with a hangover. But he had to be civil until she returned his clothes. Well, not _civil_; just not homicidal.

He crossed to the refrigerator, opened it, and looked inside, then closed it again and went to the cabinets. "You're an impressive little lady, I'll give you that," he said, his voice starting to regain some of its usual lilt, "but I just don't think you're cut out to be Gotham scrap material." He closed a cabinet and turned to her. "I mean, if it really came down to it, I mean _really_," he emphasized, "do you think you could take out Batman? He's a big guy, almost as big as me. Different build, though. Real trim." He smirked. "You sure you wouldn't rather join forces with him? The friendly neighbourhood do-gooder… at least you wouldn't have to worry about dragging his drunk ass off the streets."

He returned to the counter, picked up his glass, and started distractedly tapping it against the counter-top, watching her. "I am interested in your choice of allies, though," he admitted. "Let me ask you a question. This may be a little straightforward, but try to stay with me…" He stopped tapping the glass, paused, and then asked, "Why _me_?"

A shadow crossed Jeanette's face and her mouth sank into a scowl at his jabbing of her luxurious lifestyle. She couldn't survive in Gotham, huh? Maybe it was her more childish, proud side speaking, but she could survive perfectly well any damn place she pleased. It's not like she hadn't _tried_ living out in the streets for a few years. But there was no way for him to know that. Best to keep a gracious face on.

The mention of Batman and the oh-so-helpful millionaire Bruce Wayne made her think a bit. Her response to that was sort of mixed in to the answer to his main question, so she decided to just combine them. "Why you?" She finally got to her feet and crossed her arms. "Better question, why not?"

She left it at that. Looking down, she realized she still hadn't changed her clothes from the night before. She glanced at Napier, deciding that he could wait a second, and went to the bedroom for a change of clothes. Something not so...black might be nice today, now that she didn't have any _work_ to do. She yanked a silk sleeveless shirt and some dark washed jeans from her drawers and changed with the door shut. When she was done, she went back to the living room and took a seat on the couch.

"So? I really do want an answer." She crossed her legs and leaned forward, hands locked over her knees.

Napier leaned slightly, trying to catch a view of her, but she closed the door before removing any of her clothes. He swore silently, turning back to his empty glass of orange juice. Well, he could remedy that. He crossed to the refrigerator and opened it, looking inside. There was no more orange juice in there, but that was not really important. He started to rummage through the contents of her refrigerator when she returned to the room. He stood straight, barely avoiding hitting his already-throbbing head against the top of the refrigerator, and looked at her. Well, he had to admit, she surely did look a lot more… down-to-earth, now.

He leaned against the open refrigerator door, considering her question. "You're a slick one," he said, pointing to her. "Didn't really answer my question there… you just kinda slinked around it." He winked at her, grinning. "I think I'm beginning to like you," he said. He started to shut the refrigerator door, then reconsidered, leaving it open. "I'm gonna go through here, that okay?" he asked, but, before she answered, he started going through the refrigerator again. Then he stood, looking at her again. "You didn't give me a good enough answer," he said with a kind of finality. "I gave you the what-for on my side of the argument, and then you totally blew me off when it came to yours."

Napier closed the refrigerator door, leaning against the refrigerator and looking at her. "Don't think you can get away from answering me so easily," he said. "Just because you take some drunk off the street doesn't mean he owes you his eternal partnership. I'm not a genie, lady. I was just having a bad day, and you gave a helping hand." He shrugged. "In my eyes, this makes us even. You shoot my guy - who was very hard to find, by the way," he added, "most guys laugh at the suggestion of wearing clown makeup in the world of crime. So that was a big red mark against you."

He paused, backtracking, then went on, "You shoot my guy, then you take me off the street when I'm… _incapacitated_." He skirted around being too blatant. He still had some semblance of pride to uphold, after all. "So, to me, we're square." He drew a small square in the air with his finger. Then his attention returned to her refrigerator. "You're out of orange juice," he commented, pointing inside. "You got anything else handy? A wine cooler, maybe?" He paused, then shut the door again, looking at her. "I know what you're thinking," he said gravely. "And it's not true."

Napier moved away from the refrigerator, picking up his empty orange juice glass and putting it in the sink. He leaned against the kitchen counter, looking at her, and sighed. "Look," he said. "You want to work with me, but I think it's a really bad idea." He looked away, then looked back at her. "The last woman I… worked with… wound up dead." He paused. "She died… a horrible death." Napier reached an inattentive hand up to brush the gash in the side of his face, then caught himself and tried to feign a thoughtful pose. "So if I were you, I would find myself someone a little less… _unlucky_, to work with."

The hand dropped from his face, and he looked down at his feet. Then, after a pause, he looked up again. "And you still have my clothes." he added. "Any chance I can get those back?" He grinned. "Unless you'd like to keep them, of course… I'm sure we could _work something out_, if that were the case."

"Well..." She stretched her arms luxuriously and looked out the open windows of her suite to the outside. "Here's the situation from where I stand...sit," she corrected herself. "I not only have your name, _Jack_," she drew the word out, "but your location _and_ your clothing. If I, I don't know, wanted to call the police..."

She let the words trail off. He probably wouldn't take them very seriously. Big guys like him didn't think of a little girl like her as a threat. Still, it was nice to let him know that she had leverage. And _good_ leverage at that. Her eyes darted back to his face.

"As for your so-called 'unlucky' nature, I really couldn't care less." She sighed and put her arms behind her head. How to word this? "Listen, I'm over thirty. I'm not doing anything with my life as it is. Life's pretty boring when you've got access to everything you want." She smiled grimly and shrugged her shoulders a tiny bit. "I was close to leaving Gotham - I'd already booked a flight and everything - until rumors about you started floating around."

She grinned and shut her eyes as if she could see the newspaper headlines behind them. "'Homicidal Maniac Escapes from Prison', 'The Joker Destroys Police Station', 'City Suffers under Jester of Crime'..." She opened her eyes again. "And I could go on. So I figured, why not stick around a little?" She shrugged again and looked back out the window. "I'm not saying you 'owe' me; if anything, I owe you for getting me to stick around this dump of a city."

"There's a minibar fridge under the counter, if you're that desperate. I'd go with some coffe if I were you." Then her tone turned more playful. "And I _will_ be keeping your clothes. At least, until we _work something out._"

_Minibar fridge_. Those were the first words that jumped to mind. He leaned under the counter, opened the minibar fridge, and picked out some small bottle or another. He was not really picky; liquor was liquor, after all. Though he was sure some of it cost more than others, he could not really tell the difference, himself. He unscrewed the cap of the little bottle and took a swig, then set it down on the counter, wiping his mouth with his arm. It was pungent, but he liked it, and it was certainly doing wonders for his hangover. He glanced at the label, disinterested, then looked up as something else she had said hit him. "Wait, how do you know my name?" he asked. That was scary. If people started figuring out who he was, then his crime life and his past life would blur together, and he would become… Jonathan Crane.

He shuddered at the thought. Crane was the epitome of crazy, something Jack Napier did not aspire to become. He preferred right where he was, thank you, and rather enjoyed it while he was at it. Crane, on the other hand, was a psychopath. Even Napier had enough forward-thinking brain cells to deduce that.

He took another sip from the petite bottle, staring at her. "Over thirty?" he asked with a wry grin. "Still got it going on." He chuckled to himself, swirling the liquid in the bottle while he thought over her other statements. She knew nothing about his so-called 'unlucky' nature. He nodded, going over each headline in his mind. _Jester of Crime_… that was catchy. Maybe he would use that someday.

He shrugged, nursing the little bottle, and his eyes returned to her. "Fine, you've got my clothes," he said. "Would you like my boxers as well? Make a complete set?" He hooked a thumb into the waistline of his boxers and stretched them out, grinning at her. "Put them in your _shrine_…?" He stretched out the last word, pulling every ridiculous grain of effect out of it. He let the waistline of his boxers retract with a snap, then went back to attending to his drink. "And besides which, if I were to accept your offer - which I'm not saying I _am_," he added quickly. "I most likely won't. I don't really need my clothes, after all... I could very well terrorize Gotham in the buff. As you can probably imagine." He chuckled, watching her. "Are you imagining it right now? I think you are." He swirled the contents of the little bottle, which was nearing empty, and went on, "But if I were, just hypothetically… what exactly… would… you… _do_?"

He stared at her now, his brow starting to furrow slightly. "I mean, I know you're a sharp shooter and all, but that takes practice and time and concentration. Working with me takes… _spontaneity_." He finished the little bottle, then placed it on the counter, exhaled deeply, and turned back to her. Now he was just trying to get inside her head. Perhaps it was because his hangover had all but gone away. He was leaning heavily towards just letting her work with him - damn, she was fine, she had the money, the sweet apartment, it was all written out for him in black and white - but somehow, he felt that he might be able to sweeten the deal, if only a little, by playing hard to get.

"Do you think you could be spontaneous, if the time called for it?" he asked with a grin.

She smiled mildly and carefully inspected the blank wall across from her seat. It _had_ been a good idea to rummage through the police station after it had been ransacked; the papers she'd found on the file of "Jack Napier" had turned out to be very useful. "Through the grapevine," she said simply, with a tilt of her head and a lifting of her shoulders that said "nothing important".

The grin disappeared at his offer. So childish. "I'll pass on them, thanks," she said airily, motioning to the undergarments in question with a disgusted flick of her finger. "Supposed to be cold this week, after all." She peered out the window at a passing bird, then looked back at him with a wicked glint in her eye. "And no, I am _not_ imagining it. I've..._met_ much better-built men than you." Okay, maybe that was a bit of exaggeration; "much" wasn't entirely accurate. She had to hand it to him, Napier kept his body in pretty good shape. She smiled, again remembering Mark from yesterday. That boy had been _fine_; a fresh twenty-three-year-old, straight out of college, a zest for lifeguarding and a six-pack to prove it. _That_ was a nice body.

Finally, she stood. He wanted something spontaneous? Fine. She stood and arched her back in a stretch one last time before waltzing over to the counter where he stood. She stopped right in front of him, slowly reached her arms up, and wrapped them around the back of his neck. Then she stood on her tiptoes to get closer to his ear and murmured, "Spontaneity?"

The gun she'd pulled from her pocket clicked loudly as she cocked it next to his ear, and a grin appeared on her face.

"Ha," Napier said with a grin. This was better than what he thought she was about to do, which was kiss him. He would have been a little thrown off if Miss Cold Shoulder had suddenly decided to romance him. He chuckled, looking down into her attractive face, and nodded accordingly. "All right," he said. "You got me there. You certainly did."

He pulled the handgun away from his temple and detached himself from the woman - as attractive as she was, it was too early in the morning for him for passion - and reached down to her minibar, pulling out another tiny drink for himself. "Jeez, they don't give you much, do they?" he joked, holding up the little bottle to show her. He unscrewed the cap, watching her with scrutiny. "So you're rich," he said, placing the cap on the counter next to his first empty little bottle, "you're attractive, you're a crack shot… you've got a great house," he indicated it, "with great room service," he indicated the little bottle, "…and you want to work with _me_, of all people."

He took a drink, considering it. Then, lowering the bottle, he ran his tongue thoughtfully across his upper lip, his brown eyes travelling around the room in a pensive arch. It seemed almost too good to be true, and if there was a catch, he was sure the pros would outweigh the cons. If he tried any more of his hard-to-get stunts, she would probably shoot him. She had the handgun ready, as it was. What was he to her, after all? Just another form of entertainment? Hell, he reasoned, with these kinds of perks, he would wear a collar and let her call him Fluffy.

He looked back at her, cocked his head, and smiled at her. Then he held out the hand that was not holding the little bottle to her. "You got yourself a partner," he said.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

Crane stepped outside, looking up at the dismal grey Gotham sky. The rain had cleared hours ago, but the sky was still the same stubborn steel grey that it always was. That was one of the perks of living in Gotham; you did not have to be too versed in your colours, because if it wasn't grey, it was black, and if it wasn't black, it was strange. He removed his glasses, taking out his handkerchief, and cleaned the lenses, then folded them up and put them in his breast pocket. He did not really need them for anything besides reading, though he appreciated their intimidating nature. He always kept them handy and clean, just in case he needed a little extra something when trying to intimidate someone into doing something.

He carelessly smoothed a lock of slick, dark hair; perhaps their next hiding-place would be someplace with a shower. Maybe a hotel room. They were an odd bunch, but easily explainable. He was a college professor from out-of-town, and he had brought his wife, his sister, and his father-in-law with him, as well as his, er, adorable little niece. There was no way in hell he was going to say that Jeannie Rose belonged to him. And if Kitty tried to not play along with the ruse, that was easily fixed, too. Of course, any more of his intimidating sexual advances towards Kitty would be frowned upon by those who did know who they really were, but Crane could care less what they thought.

He knew how to get into Kitty's head, and that was all that mattered.

He walked back inside the abandoned warehouse and knelt down in front of Kitty, who was asleep. He cleared a few loose strands of her hair out of her face and traced the line of her jaw with his finger, staring at her. Kitty's eyes fluttered open and she paused, then slapped Crane's hand away with a quiet shriek of surprised horror. He stared at her, a cruel, sarcastic grin widening on his face. "Good morning, sunshine," he said mockingly. She stared at him, not daring to move or reply. He got to his feet and turned to the rest of his associates.

"We have some business to attend to," he said, hoping that, if his associates had any semblance of usefulness, they would wake at the sound of his voice, "so we need to grab these two," he indicated Kitty and Jeannie Rose, "and get out." He turned to Flicker. "How would you like to light a few fires?" he said. "We need to find someone… and I believe the only way to do that will be to…" He grinned. "…Light a fire under her."

He turned to Goodhart. "Change of plans," he said. "We're going to go after your daughter first." He turned his head, looking at Goodhart from a different angle in a strange mannerism that he had, almost oddly owl-like. "She may be just the key to finding Napier… so we can't kill her just yet." He turned his head the other way with an expression of mock disappointment. "Aww." Then he turned back and looked at Kitty, who was staring at him in confused dread. "Don't look so unhappy, Kitty," he said mockingly. "You're going to have company soon."

With that, he grinned and turned away from her.

A whole night, wasted. Flick muttered a few times in bitter frustration throughout the long hours of nothingness before settling in for a long wait. Other people seemed to like to sleep; not her. If she needed to, the girl could run off of one measly hour of sleep. Unfortunately, that meant that she was stuck toying idly with her lighter while the two men, Kitty, and the girl slept.

She'd almost been reduced to tears by dawn, when Crane finally broke the monotonous silence. She didn't give a fuck at this point what he said; the only word that caught her was "fire." A mild smile lit up her face and she nodded excitedly. Maybe, if she was lucky and he was as generous as he said he'd be with supply money, she could try out some black powder. Her trip to Jim's the morning before had been to get a supply for the powder, which she'd been reading up on. It got boring playing with the same old toys all the time, no matter how much she appreciated the effect of a match and a can of gasoline. She'd never worked with explosions, unless you counted the neat little fireworks show at Jim's place, and black powder was the perfect place to start.

She sighed contentedly. She almost felt sorry for the poor fuck who'd gotten on Crane and Charles' nerves.

Interrupted from his peaceful sleep by Crane's obnoxious tones. He was ready to punch the younger man until his brain processed what had been said. They were going after the girl.

But they weren't going to get rid of her yet.

He bit back a howl of frustration, aching to remind Crane (once _again_) of their deal. He'd help Crane with his little plans, and in return the man would help Charles find Maria and kill her. _Patience is a virtue,_ he reminded himself, for what must have been the hundredth time, and just nodded.

. . .

After two days with her new house guests, Maria had firmly convinced herself that, if she ever got married, to never have kids.

The meeting with Gordon and Wayne at the station had finished quite abruptly after the boy had interrupted them. Gordon was all for sticking the kid in jail for attempted theft, but at the little girl's teary-eyed expression, they opted to hear the two out.

From the little they could draw out of the teen, they lived with an abusive mother; their dad had left home several years ago. The girl was often hit and shoved (Maria herself had confirmed this by inspecting bruises stretched across her back, arms, and legs), and the boy was kicked out to the street at least once a day. All of the three adults had looked shocked. Unfortunately, the boy refused point-blank to tell Gordon his last name, so the commissioner couldn't do anything about the mother.

Instead, he'd asked Maria to look out for the kids until the matter was straightened out.

And this was how she'd been stuck with a teenage brat and a constantly terrified little girl. She tossed her head to the side of her reclining chair at her bedroom door, which hung open to reveal the boy, Todd, and little Olivia (oops, _Livvy_, as Todd had informed her with a haughty look) curled up on her bed. Maria sighed and lurched unsteadily to her feet, grabbing her back at the wave of pain that accompanied her movement. Sleeping on a couch was _not_ a good idea. But her only other option was on the ground with a sleeping bag, so...

She rummaged around the kitchen for some food and finally opted to go out for some lunch instead. She left a quick note on the kitchen table ( "be back in ten" ) for the kids and locked the door behind her. Max would watch them. Anyways, Livvy had taken a quick liking to the dog.

A few minutes later found her in front of the Bangkok Bistro, head swimming with memories. Her hand automatically went to the base of her ring finger, but of course it found nothing. She and Aidan Montgomery had disastrously broken up after the night of the Wayne Enterprises Gala; he'd ripped the ring off her finger without explanation and gone storming off. She still didn't quite understand what had happened. Maybe it would be good to explain herself.

Her timing was perfect. At that thought, a bedraggled Aidan was thrown out of the front door of the shop by the owner, who shouted, "Either sober up and come back, or get the fuck out of my sight!" Maria's former boyfriend crashed into her and stumbled back a few paces.

When he realized who it was, he scowled. "Oh. It's _you_."

The venom in Aidan's voice stung. Maria's eyebrows lowered and she asked, "Listen, I'm just going to be direct about this. What happened?" She wasn't in the mood for chatting.

Aidan shuffled his feet, laughed a bit, and looked her in the eye. She noticed then that his usually clear blue eyes were clouded and rimmed heavily with red and dark shadows. Taking the hint, she glanced at the rest of him. Her eye was quickly drawn to his arm. His inner elbow was faded blue. _Drugs?!_

By then, Aidan was talking. "You want to know why we broke up? What _happened_?" he mimicked her worried tone in a high, girlish imitation. "We would have broken up eventually, so I decided to speed up the process."

He grimaced and added in a mutter, "Too bad I'm not some fucking psychopath, then we might've worked."

Maria bristled at that. "What the fuck does _that_ mean?" she asked in a strained voice. Aidan laughed again, stumbling a bit. He had to be drunk.

"Oh, you know. There are pictures of that Gala all over the net. I saw you, hanging all over that fuckin' loony,"" he spat. "Like the whore you are." He grinned stupidly.

Then he stumbled back as Maria shoved his shoulders and got right up into his face. "Listen up, you fucking pig. I was trying to help out the police station. Do you honestly think I did that because I _wanted_ to?" Her voice was reaching hysterical heights; she breathed. "Fine. If you want to be an idiotic little prick, then just fine. Go drink yourself into oblivion."

She drew back her arm and slapped him hard across the face. He covered the stinging red mark with both hands, looking at her as if for the first time. "Just stay the fuck away from me." With that, she stomped away without looking back.

. . .

Crane loathed the stench of liquor, and yet it hung over this poor fool like a heavy cloud.

He had recognized the boy from afar, despite his slovenly, staggering gait and dishevelled appearance, and had taken an instant interest in him. It was not his pathetic appearance or his dark mutterings that attracted Crane to him like a magnet, but rather the fact that he knew that he knew the boy from somewhere; and then it hit him. He silently signalled to his following party to come along as he approached the young man and placed two fingertips gently on his shoulder.

"Hello," he said quietly, "I believe we've met before. - Don't speak," he said, his fingers moving to the man's mouth, stopping a few inches away, sojourning the young man before he could protest. "Just hear me out." He dropped his hand to his side, staring at the young man with a slight, wicked grin. "I'm just looking for a mutual friend." he continued in his soft, hypnotizing voice. "And from the looks of you, you seem to have run into her recently." His smirk widened. "She does seem to have a knack for leaving a trail of wreckage in her wake," he observed wryly.

He glanced back at his companions, at Kitty, who looked confused but terrified, at Flick, who looked ready to burst with pent-up energy, at Goodhart, who looked sullen but antsy, as usual, then back at the young man. "I take it she's out of the house," he said. He paused, looked him up and down, and then asked, "You wouldn't happen to know where she lives… would you?" He grinned at him. "It would be… most helpful for us if you did."

Aidan's eyes tried, and failed, to focus on the stranger's eyes. Stranger? Was he? Looked vaguely familiar, but his fuzzy mind couldn't focus long enough to figure out where he'd met the guy.

After a few moments he realized who the guy was talking about. "Maria," he grunted, tone laced with venom. "Yeah, she's out an' about." He itched the reddening inside of his left elbow irritably. Stupid drugs were giving him a rash. "Jus' ran into her a few minutes ago..."

He suddenly peered curiously at the entourage. Two girls around his own age, this strange guy who looked older, and then another guy who could be his dad. "What're you, some kind of gang?" He grinned and his lids fluttered heavily. Man, he needed some sleep...Might as well help these guys out before he went, though. Maybe they were with the police or something, and wanted more help. "She's on Adams Street, building three-sixteen, room twenty-two," he rattled off, pointing vaguely in the direction of her apartment.

Then he put a hand to his head. "You wouldn't happen to have a light, would you?" he asked, yanking a packet of cigarettes from his coat pocket.

Crane inclined his head approvingly at the young man's willingness to give information, even if he was too out of it to realize to whom he gave it. He reached into his pocket at the young man's request of a lighter and pulled out his own, flicking it open and holding it out for the boy to light up. When he had finished lighting his cigarette, Crane put the lighter back in his pocket and stared at the boy. The cigarette smoke was foul, as was everything else about this lowly gamin… he could barely stand straight. Crane sneered; he hated intoxicants, and had vowed long ago that he would never become the slave of something as base as habit-forming substances. But just because he did not approve of the boy's life choices did not mean he was not a good informant.

"You've been very helpful," he said slowly. "We may return for further information, if you're willing…" He exhaled, looking away. "Maria Goodhart," he said. "Such a talented young soul… it's a shame her career has to… go up in smoke." He looked back at the young man, who had apparently not caught the sinister undertone of his airy statement. Crane smirked. This young man would probably not remember this meeting when he woke up in the morning with a horrid hangover. He would probably get up and go about his daily business with no idea that he had doomed the girl he had once been so avidly enamoured with.

"Well, we must be on our way," Crane said, glancing back at his group. "We wouldn't want to miss our date with Maria." He smirked at them, then turned and started walking away from Aidan. Kitty watched him, hesitated, weighing her odds, then yanked her arm free from Goodhart and ran to Aidan, grabbing hold on his shirt frantically.

"You know Maria?!" she insisted. "Maria, the writer?! Brown hair Maria?! Please, you have to help me!" She felt herself yanked back away from Aidan. She struggled, frantically grasping for his shirt as she was dragged away from him. "Please, tell Maria that Kitty's in trouble! Kitty and Jeannie Rose need her help! Tell Maria! Tell her that we need her - "

"Shut up!" Crane struck Kitty across the face with the back of one hand, his crystal blue eyes burning. He glared at her, his face darkening into a humourless frown. "You'll learn to keep your mouth shut," he said quietly, getting in her face, "or your daughter will be the one paying for it." Kitty put a terrified and shocked hand to her face, staring at him. Crane turned away from her, rubbing the hand he had struck her with, and glared at Goodhart. "And you," he said, just as threatening, "you'll learn to keep a better hold on her." He glanced at Flicker, who had done nothing wrong, then turned back around. "And now," he said, trying to regain his usual calm exterior, "we can return to what we were doing… _before_ this little interruption." He heaved a deep breath, smoothed his jacket, and started walking away again.

Kitty stared at him for a moment as the group began moving again, then glanced back one last time at Aidan. He was her only hope. She got one last good glance of her inebriated saviour before she was dragged around a corner and out of sight.

Flicker watched Crane's performance with an impressed look on her face. Taking advantage of people who just didn't know better seemed to be his specialty. It'd sure worked with that lumbering idiot Goodhart. She sneaked a glance out of the corner of her eye at him and had to look away, snickering. What a blockhead.

She was very surprised at Kitty's behavior; everything she'd seen up to this point had pointed to a meek and mild lady who just couldn't fend for herself. She'd really taken her life into her own hands with that (admittedly bad) move, and Flick had to applaud her for that. Not aloud, of course. She didn't particularly want to be backhanded. Instead, she smiled genuinely at the woman, forgetting briefly that she was part of the crew who'd abducted her and her kid.

At the glint in Crane's eye, Flick wondered once again who this Maria girl was. If she hadn't seen Crane in all his glory, she'd be tempted to think that the woman had broken up with him or something. Now she wondered. Finally, she decided to just voice the question and dare him to hit her if he didn't like it. "What's your deal with this chick anyways? You used to be dating, or something?"

The whole time she spoke, of course, only one thought ran through her head. _Goodhart got __scolded__, and I diiiiiidn't._ She shot the man a smug look, hoping he'd catch it.

Charles _did_ catch Flicker's look, and growled menacingly at the girl.

He adjusted his grip on Kitty's arm, this time digging his nails into the woman's flesh. Crane thought he was the big man on campus, he thought furiously. If he didn't need the man, he would just beat him into a pulp right there and then. Unfortunately, circumstances dictated that he work with him for just a little while lo...

He froze, a rabid animal-esque expression stuck on his maw. The girl was giving him a look of superiority.

He ground his teeth and shut down his brain. He'd do what he had to do. He'd probably be badgered and made fun of the whole way. And then he'd kill these two in their sleep.

Crane froze, a surprised and somewhat mortified expression on his face, and slowly turned to face Flicker. "No," he said slowly, his every word freezing, "we were not - _dating_." He stared at her. He had the strangest urge that she was beginning to think she was on the same level as he was, and that was never good. "We were never - _dating_," he added, annunciating pointedly, "and I would never date someone like her. Or her," he indicated Kitty, then turned back to Flicker. "Or you," he added dourly. "Dating is for the weak-minded, who feel they cannot survive on their own two feet, and feel the need to find someone to carry them."

He turned back to Kitty, watching her with that same dark scowl on his face. "Marriage is for the cowardly," he continued. His eyes flicked to Goodhart now. "They feel they don't have enough power on their own, so they have to have their pound of flesh to call lawfully theirs. Only then do they feel complete." Then his eyes returned to Kitty. "And _children_," he said spitefully, indicating Jeannie Rose, "children are for the licentious. They are the unplanned and unwanted seeds of lust. Children bring nothing into the world but trouble and hate. You give them life and then they grow up to kill you." At this, he glanced at Goodhart. "Children are like diseases." he said. "They need to be nipped in the bud."

He paused, letting his words sink in, then turned back to Flicker, deadly serious. "We were not _dating_," he said again. Then, for good measure, he added, "I don't - _date_." The word came off his tongue like poison. He stared at Flicker, then at Goodhart, and then at Kitty, then turned back around and started walking away again. "We're wasting our time with idle chatter," he said bitterly. "We have someplace to be."

Aidan stumbled along the road his old workplace was on, thoughts cloudy. That lady...Kitty, she'd called herself...her screaming made no sense. The nice guy who'd given him a light certainly didn't seem the type to hurt someone. Then again, that huge brute who was holding Kitty didn't look like good news.

He shrugged to himself. The worst Maria could do was call him more names and yell at him. He'd better pass on the message.

Maria was walking blindly through streets, unsure of where she was headed (and still trying to forget the shouting match she'd just had), when she heard a male voice call her name. A voice that sounded suspiciously like...

Aidan. She grimaced.

He caught up with her slowly, still weaving while he walked. "Hey, I just saw this girl and a few guys...she wanted me to pass on a message..." Maria rubbed her temple with one hand, the other clenched into a fist at her side. What the hell was Aidan talking about?

He collected himself for a moment, trying to remember exactly what Kitty had said. "This lady...Kitty, she said her name was, said that she and..." He paused again, trying to remember the other name. "...something Rose needed help. Told me to tell you right away." Maria had clapped her hand over her mouth at the word "Kitty"; had something happened?

"Did she say where they were, or where they were going?" she asked hurriedly. It could be anything; Jeannie Rose could be sick, or Kitty could be remembering something, or...Aidan just stood there stupidly, scratching his scalp. "Nah, they were just with these two guys and a girl." Maria groaned and ran off without a word of thanks.

She'd have to go back to her apartment. Kitty may have found out her address from the police station or, if not, given her a call or something. Thoughts buzzed like irritating mosquitos around Maria's brain, and she couldn't focus. Lunch had been completely forgotten.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

The cameras were flashing and rolling, and the microphones were all set up by the time Bruce Wayne took his seat in the small, large-windowed conference room of Wayne Tower, where he had agreed to let Harvey Dent give a well-publicized speech. Whatever press had not been instantly drawn to the event, Wayne had left phone messages at their offices to inform them of the important event, and so the turnout was, to say the least, impressive. Wayne folded his hands in his lap, staring at the empty podium. Alfred came in and sat down next to him. Neither one said a word for a moment, then Alfred leaned over to Wayne and said, "Do you think Miss Dawes will be here, Sir?"

Wayne shrugged. "It doesn't really matter either way," he answered, a slight bitterness in his tone. Alfred stared at him, the tone not escaping him.

"I believe she's still very much interested in you, Sir," he said. "She just believes this Harvey Dent fellow is rather more, ah, _consistent_, if you will."

Wayne nodded thoughtfully, sighing. "She's right," he admitted. Then he turned to Alfred. "So how are things going with Fox?" he asked.

Alfred smiled. "Oh, quite swimmingly, thank you, Sir," he said.

There was a long pause. Wayne's eyes strayed, the patient half-smile lingering on his face, then they returned to Alfred. "And?" he asked.

Alfred looked surprised for a moment, then exclaimed, "Oh, you mean the antidote! Of course, Sir. Well, Mister Fox says that he is working hard on making as much of it as he can, but he's afraid Crane might be working on modifying the formula, so all of the antidote he is making might become useless or semi-useless, but for now, should Crane continue to use any of his original formula, Mister Fox says that he can produce as much antidote as you need."

Wayne nodded, crossing his arms. "That's great news," he said.

Alfred nodded. "He says one use of the antidote will prevent you from being effected by Crane's toxin for up to six months. After that, you have to renew your dosage."

Wayne turned to look at him. "Six months?" he asked, impressed. He turned back to the empty podium. "That Mister Fox is quite a talented individual," he commented.

Alfred smiled, turning to face the podium as well. "Oh, you have _no_ idea, Sir," he said.

Wayne frowned, opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, and then closed it again. Then he turned to Alfred. "You know, Alfred, I think I'm going to try to refrain from asking you about Mister Fox anymore," he said, a slightly horrified tone in his voice.

Alfred shrugged. "Suit yourself, Sir," he answered.

Just then, a commotion went up among the reporters as a side door opened and Harvey Dent stepped into the room, leading Rachel Dawes, who was looking beautiful, as usual. Wayne watched her as she smiled for the cameras, then as Dent indicated for her to take a seat. She looked up, saw Wayne sitting in the back, and, biting her lip, took a seat in the front. Wayne sighed, then looked up at Dent, who was taking his place behind the podium.

Dent looked out over the gathered crowd. "Thank you for coming, ladies and gentlemen," he said with his signature boxy smile. "I asked you all to come here so we could discuss something that has come to my attention in recent times." He paused for effect. "The crime rate in Gotham is spiking," he went on. "Since the arrival of the mysterious caped crusader who calls himself 'Batman', Gotham's crime rate has been on a steady decline. But with the most recent reports, we are noticing an emerging pattern." He frowned here. "There has been a steady incline of… released patients from Arkham Asylum."

The collected company gasped, and then a slight buzz of worried, murmuring voices erupted in the room. Wayne nodded gravely. He knew this would come up. Dent raised a hand, quieting the gathered assembly. "We have recently been informed that there has been violent activity within the walls of Arkham Asylum," he said. "An inmate by the name of Charles Goodhart has been released from Arkham… he's a murderer. But, even worse…" He paused for effect again, looking around at everyone in the room, then said, "Doctor Crane has escaped from Arkham Asylum."

Rachel put a shocked hand to her mouth, and turned to look at Wayne. Wayne looked at her, then his eyes returned to Harvey Dent, who was staring at the gathered crowd with a stern, serious expression. "Besides these inmates," he went on, "there has also been an increased number of arson attacks on the city of Gotham… evidence links them all to the same person." He looked at a few of the cameras. "The body of a man was found near a hotel a few days ago," he said. "Police autopsy revealed that he had been shot, and gunshot analysts determined it to be the bullet of a sniper."

By now the people were getting very worried. Dent was no longer smiling. "And lastly," he said, "is the issue of the Joker." He cleared his throat. "The Joker was in police custody until just recently," he said. "He somehow managed to escape. We aren't sure how," of course he was making this up, but he did not want to make the Gotham police department sound any worse than it already did, "but he's now loose on the streets. He carries an arsenal of assorted weaponry, and he is armed, dangerous, unpredictable, and, worst of all, crazy." He looked at a few of the other cameras now. "These are dangerous criminals, and they must be stopped. Batman will do what he can, but I must impress upon each and every one of you," he looked into each of the cameras in turn, "to do what you can to help put these people behind bars."

He lifted a hand, showing five fingers. "That's five criminals on the loose," he said. He started counting them down for the cameras. "Goodhart, Crane, an arsonist, a sniper, and the Joker." He lowered his hand, looking out at his audience. "I know this sounds grim," he said. "But remember, the night is always darkest before the dawn." He paused, a determined look spreading across his face. "The dawn is coming!" he said with fervour. He stared at his audience for another moment, then turned to walk off the podium.

Instantly, he was swarmed by reporters, but before he had a chance to turn them down, the doors burst open and Gordon came rushing in. "Bruce!" he exclaimed frantically, looking around for Wayne. Wayne stood, facing Gordon. Alfred looked worriedly between the two. Even Dent and Rachel were watching in worry.

"What's the matter, Gordon?" Wayne asked.

Gordon looked at him, wild-eyed. "Oh, Wayne, thank god I found you," he panted. "There's a fire. You have to come."

Dent frowned. "Bruce Wayne doesn't fight fire," he chuckled. "Bruce Wayne fights poverty."

"It's at Maria's apartment," Gordon added, ignoring Dent.

Wayne's eyes widened, and he pushed his chair out of the way, following Gordon hurriedly out of the room. Alfred, Dent, Rachel, and the rest of the gathered crowd were completely silent, staring after them. Then Dent looked up at the reporters with a slightly awkward smile. "So," he said. "Criminals."

The reporters hesitated for a moment, then they all started swarming around Dent again. He led them off into a side room for interviews, leaving Rachel behind. She stared after Dent for a moment, then turned back and looked worriedly at Alfred. Alfred gave her a sad look, then sighed. Rachel looked up after Wayne, clutching her purse. "Bruce," she whispered.

. . .

Crane stood before the burning building, the blistering flames reflected in his glasses, his icy eyes taking in the arson before him, a twisted smile locked on his full lips. He held his lighter by his side, slowly clicking it open and closed, and glanced over at Flicker, who seemed to be enjoying the flames almost as much as he was, if not more. He looked back at the burning house with a contented sigh. He hated the scent of cigarettes and smoked drugs, but he loved the scent of burning destruction. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes, savouring the smell of smoke, then opened his eyes and let out his breath in a satisfied exhale.

"Such a pity," he said cruelly, still smiling, as he stared up at the burning building. "All that work… gone to waste. And for what?" He turned away and looked at Kitty, who was staring up at the building in terrified wonder. He watched her until she looked down and saw him, and her expression changed to one of fear, not fear of the fire, but fear of him. A strange grin split his face as he stared at her, and he blinked slowly, meditatively, considering her. "It's a pity she never had a family," he said. He looked back at the burning building. "Except for her dog," he added in a strange, wistful tone, staring up at the building.

He chuckled, looking back at the other members of the group. He heaved a sigh, then, tilting his head in that strange, idiosyncratic fashion, he smiled at them, a little too upbeat for the current situation. "Well, ladies and gentlemen - and you," he added to Goodhart, "we have places to go, and people to… _intimidate_."

He tucked his lighter into his jacket pocket, put a secure hand over the pocket, and then dropped the hand to his side. Kitty watched him with a kind of morbid enthralment, then her dull eyes returned to his face. He stared at her, his eyes locking with hers, and an odd half-smile formed on his lips. "Kitty," he said. She hesitated, frowning. "What's the matter, Kitty?" he asked. "Don't you know my name?" He started to approach her, and she took a step back, watching him with apprehension. He stopped when he stood right before her; even at his height, he still stood over her, and he looked down into her face with a sinister grin.

"Doctor Crane," he said slowly. She stared at him. "Say it, Kitty," he said. "Say it, or we're not going to go _anywhere_." She stared at him, frowning. He stared right back at her, his crystal eyes boring into her dull ones. "It's easy Kitty. Just say my name," he said with a widening grin. Her eyes widened, and she took another step back. "Can't you speak, Kitty?" he asked, taking another step forward towards her. He leaned forward, down to her ear, and whispered breathily, articulating his words, "You can call me… _Jonathan_."

Kitty bit her lip, her breath shuddering, terrified, as he leaned back and stared at her, his eyes meeting hers, staring avidly at her, grinning terribly. He smirked, then turned away from her and started to walk nonchalantly down the road. He signalled to Flicker and Goodhart, then folded his hands behind his back, continuing on his careless way. "And now, to the first order of business," he said, as if his whole incident with Kitty had not just happened. Kitty stared at him, terrified, then felt herself pulled along with the train. This was turning out to be not only a nightmare, but a nightmare in which she might not have a chance of waking up… alive.

Crane grinned to himself as he turned a corner and disappeared into the shadows, his group behind him.

He was definitely getting to her.

It wasn't very often that Flicker had the priveledge to light such a great fire. But there it was, billowing smokily out of the windows of building three-sixteen. Her eyes followed the twisting shapes of the flames for nearly five minutes before she realized she was now being left behind, so she literally skipped off after Crane.

She slid up to his side and comfortably slung an arm around his shoulder. It seemed, to her at least, that his anger at her earlier dating comment was gone. In fact, the fire had him in a pretty good mood. Her own mind was buzzing pleasantly from such a successful fire. So she was willing to risk a bit of chumminess. Besides, if he wasn't the touchy-feely type, there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it; that was one advantage as being as tall as him. "Well, that went quite swimmingly," she said in an exaggerated drawl. "What's our next job, boss-man?" She looked dreamily at the dull, damp alley they were walking in with a wistful sigh. "More fire, I hope."

If it didn't have to do with fire, she figured, she hoped it involved celebrating at some dance club. She wouldn't mind some excessive flirting right now, and the pounding music at her usual places.

Goodhart watched the girl's antics with disgust. He intensely wished that he didn't have to work with the idiot. If he had things his way, she'd be lying in a gutter right now like the street scum she was. Unfortunately, Crane seemed to think that she was useful.

He smiled darkly. He could wait.

Her question, though, piqued his interest. "Yes, what _are_ we going to do now?" he asked gruffly, eyeing the doctor. "Now that my dear daughter has been burned out of her house, we _are_ going to find her. Right?"

Crane stiffened when he felt Flicker put her arm around his shoulders. His jaw locked and his eyebrows shot up in surprise. Slowly he turned to look at her, listening to her inane inquiries, trying hard not to lose his cool façade as he took a deep, even breath, and then explained, slowly, "Not everything in this life is flammable. Some things have to be… _worked_ for." He cocked his head, looking over at her with an unamused, dark expression, his lips pursed. "And I would appreciate it," he added, articulating every word dangerously, "if you would not… _cling_ on me."

He shrugged her arm off of his shoulders, then jumped his shoulders a few times, as if trying to shake off her essence in its entirety, before pulling on the collar and ends of his jacket, straightening it, and smoothing the front, making sure to eliminate any wrinkles she might have caused in it by her un-called-for touching. "_Goilliúnach_," he muttered under his breath, making sure all of the creases had been taken care of. Then he cleared his throat, inhaled, then let out his breath in an ostentatious huff. "Please try to _staon ó teagmhaigh_," he said to Flicker in a stiff, somewhat annoyed tone. "Don't… touch," he translated roughly.

He had not meant to lapse into a foreign language. He had never really lost his temper before… he wondered what would happen if she finally did end up doing something that would drive him over the edge. He almost chuckled at the thought of screaming at her in some foreign language she did not understand, but soon pushed the thought from his mind. He would not let her get that far. He would keep his head… regardless of what she did.

It would be a challenge, but he was up for it.

Then he turned to Goodhart. "Now," he said, just as slowly, "we are going to lay low for a while. As soon as Maria is through getting everything sorted out with the police, we can begin trying to find her again." He glanced over at Kitty, who was staring at the ground, listening intently. "But we won't kill her," he said, not looking at Goodhart but making sure he understood. "Not yet. We may need her… for the bigger picture."

He wanted Kitty to look up at him, but she did not. Her eyes remained stolidly fixed on the ground. Maybe she thought that if she looked at him, he would do something to upset her even more. And, he had to admit to himself, she was probably right. He did not know why he took such pleasure in toying with Kitty, but the look of terror in her dull blue eyes whenever he overstepped her very conservative boundaries never failed to amuse him. He half-grinned to himself at the thought, then turned away again.

"At the moment, our primary concern is hanging back in the shadows until the smoke clears," he said, trying to find whatever fire-related expressions he could, hoping to hold Flicker's interest. She was a flighty thing, and he was never sure quite where her loyalties lay, though he had gone against himself in trusting her enough to make her a part of his ever-growing group. "Then we can strike again." He checked his watch. "I would give it until tomorrow," he estimated.

Crane looked up at his party, realizing that they probably did not have that much patience, and paused, thinking. He glanced over at Flicker, then at Goodhart, and finally at Kitty, and then his gaze returned to Flicker. He grinned with an odd jerk of his head, and asked, "So… who wants to blow something up?"

Always the agreeable one, Flicker allowed her arm to be bounced off of Crane's shoulder. She couldn't resist smacking him once on the back, though, and saying with a huge smirk, "Somebody needs to get _la-id_..." As a precaution, she veered a few steps further away from the doctor, eyeing him with a cheeky smile. Not because she was scared, of course. They both knew that if he did a thing to her, she'd rip his head off. Being the same height meant nothing; Flick had a few more years on the streets than Crane, and subsequently a few more muscles in the right places.

Her expression became more serious as the conversation turned towards their plans. She could maybe stand waiting another night before they did something, she figured as she nodded to herself. She kicked a pebble viciously into a gutter. It'd be annoying, though. Her philosophy on life was that if there was fun to be had then, by God, she was going to have it.

Which meant, of course, that her eyes lit up again when explosives were mentioned. Her hand was in the air, like a child answering a question at school, before she knew it. "Well, if nobody _else_ is in the mood..."

Goodhart let out a huge breath of air and suddenly rammed his fist into the brick wall closest to him. Then he flexed his fingers, cracked his knuckles, and nodded as if nothing had happened.

Of course they weren't going to kill Maria. Not _yet_. Not until the sick doctor got what he wanted, and only God knew what that was. He sent up a silent prayer for patience, which it seemed like he'd been doing a lot lately, and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

Crane stopped, staring ahead, then, his brow furrowing slightly, he exhaled before saying, in a dangerous, slow voice, "I don't believe that comment was _called for_… Miss." He turned and looked at her, his light-blue eyes boring into her. She was lucky she had decided to step away when she had, because he might have been tempted to harm her. He locked his jaw, swallowing, thinking of what to say. He took a deep breath, calming himself. Losing one's temper was only a few steps away from admitting one's fear, as anger was often a side effect of fear. He was not, in any way, afraid of this girl, but she was doing everything possibly in her power to drive him absolutely crazy.

He almost chuckled at that. If that was her goal, then she was a bit late.

Then his head snapped around to face Goodhart when the man took an angry fist to the nearest wall. Crane raised his eyebrows at the man, glanced at the wall, and then back at Goodhart, who seemed to be acting as if his explosive little tirade had not just occurred. Crane lowered one eyebrow, staring at Goodhart inquiringly, if a little demeaning. Then he looked over at Kitty.

"Are you all right?" he asked. Her eyes were wide in fear and surprise from when Goodhart had punched the wall, and she looked over at Crane in shock, shaking slightly. She nodded. He sighed. "Pity," he said. His eyes flicked up to the little girl that Goodhart still carried on his shoulder. She was sleeping soundly, as if she did not even realize that he was not her parent, and that she was anything but safe. He frowned. The child was a remarkably heavy sleeper. He began wondering if she was sick, but then realized how little he actually cared.

He turned away from Kitty and Goodhart and glanced over at Flicker, who was waving her arm in the air like a child wanting to be called on in grade school. He pursed his lips, staring at her, then frowned as she explained herself. He had many things in mind that could use destroying… Arkham Asylum, the police station, Wayne Manor, Wayne Enterprises, Wayne Tower… he suddenly realized how many of those options had the name 'Wayne' in them. A sadistic half-grin split his face. But none of that would be, in any way, helpful to their cause. They were trying to smoke out Jack Napier.

Then he got an idea.

"We have someplace to go," he said, indicating for them to follow. Then he turned back to Kitty. "I hope you didn't have anything of sentimental value in your house," he said.

She looked up at him. "Why?" she asked, curious and afraid.

He grinned wickedly. "Because you don't anymore." he answered.

She watched Goodhart warily for a moment. The silent beast of burden had finally cracked a bit. She grinned and looked to the sky. Well, a bit _more_, she should say. But it was worth taking note of, because he _was_ bigger than her. And she got the uneasy feeling that he wouldn't have any qualms breaking some limbs. She whimpered a bit and looked away. She _liked_ her bones.

Then she met Crane's irritated gaze. God, he really _was_ ticked. Ah, well, might as well chip away at him a bit more. "No, no, you're right," she said, sad tone not matching her happy face at all. "It was wrong of me to say." She raised her hand and smacked the back of it, a cocky grin beaming into Crane's face. "I pwomise, it won't happen again."

Then she skipped off ahead of the group, alternating hopping forwards and backwards. She began to sing quietly, "We didnt start the fire, it was always burning since the world's been turning..."

. . .

The sirens of the fire trucks came wailing around the corner, led by Gordon's police cruiser. Gordon parked the car quickly and he and one other policeman jumped out, running to the building and staring up in horror at the fire. "Those two kids are still in there!" Gordon cried. He looked around. Where was Bruce Wayne? Had he taken a wrong turn? That was hard to imagine, seeing as all he would have to do was follow the flashing lights, but leave it to the eccentric millionaire to mess up something so simple.

He frowned and looked back at the building, shading his eyes against the flames. Just then, a black figure came swooping in and landed on the uppermost windowsill, sliding the window open and slipping inside. Batman… so Batman decided to show up after all. Gordon could not help but heave a sigh of relief. He knew the masked vigilante to be a symbol of good, but to everyone else, Batman was nothing more than a common criminal. The firemen reeled out their hoses, getting ready to start spraying the fire.

Just then, Batman reappeared at the window, carrying one child over his shoulder and the other in his arms. He stood at the sill, looking down at the gathered fire officials, and then, turning, he looked straight at Gordon. Gordon nodded and turned to the firemen. "Get something for them to land on!" he shouted. "Quick!" The firemen nodded, rushing back to get what they were instructed, and Gordon looked up again at Batman, who was glancing over his shoulder at the steadily growing fire. The firemen finally got back with the proper equipment, and set it up under the window. Batman set the little girl on her feet, pointed to the landing mark, and gave her a little push. The firemen caught the little girl and helped her to safely get out of the landing net.

Then Batman took the boy down from his shoulder and showed him the landing mark. Then the firemen caught the boy, too, and helped him to safety. Batman then turned and disappeared back into the building. Gordon's brow furrowed. "What is he _doing?_" he asked, a bit frantic. A few moments later, Batman stood at the window with a large, furry dog that looked slightly charred, from what Gordon could see. The firemen, a little confused, set up again as Batman sent the dog down to the landing net. Then he ducked back inside for a third time.

Gordon frowned, then looked over at the children and the dog. He approached them, watching as the firemen gave oxygen to the boy, whom he recognized as Todd from the station, and the girl, little Olivia. Then he looked over at the dog. The dog was breathing shallowly, and some of its fur had been singed off. A fireman was attending very carefully to it. Gordon came over and stood next to the fireman, looking down at the dog. "Are they going to be all right?" he asked quietly.

The fireman looked up at him, and his dark eyes locked with Gordon's. Gordon frowned slightly, looking at the man. He smelled slightly of liquor, and there was something not quite right about his face... "Doesn't look good," the fireman answered, looking back down at the dog so Gordon would stop looking at his face. Gordon raised his eyebrows. There was something strange going on here. "The children look fine… the dog, however, doesn't look like he's going to make it."

Gordon looked down at the dog, who was breathing quietly. It looked like some of its fur had been burned off, and it was having trouble breathing, but if it could get to a veterinary clinic in time, Gordon did not see why the dog could not be saved. He looked back up at the fireman. "Are you sure the dog isn't going to - "

"Officer Gordon!" another one of the firemen called. Gordon turned and looked in his direction. The fireman indicated for Gordon to come over and talk to the children.

Gordon nodded, then started to turn back to the other fireman, "Look, just take the dog - " But the fireman was gone. Gordon stared at the empty spot where the fireman had been, then looked down at the dog on the little gurney. It was no longer breathing. Gordon reached out a shaky hand and touched the dog's neck, which had been snapped, and retracted his hand when he felt blood. Then he looked down on the gurney and saw, unmistakeably, the red grin of the Joker.

He looked up at the burning building with a horrified frown, then got on his walkie-talkie. "Units, units, we have a Code Red. Code Red. The Joker is in the building! I repeat, _the Joker is in the building!_" He ran to the medical fireman, who was giving oxygen to the children. "Take these two to the closest local hospital, _now!_" he insisted. "Make sure they're totally safe! We don't want any more fatalities!"

Batman turned, trying frantically to find the important object he was looking for… he could risk the fire, if only to save what he had failed to get from Maria before. He moved to her desk, where several of her hand-written papers had already caught fire, and began looking through the wreckage of what was still left. He stuffed them under his arm, thinking the writer might need them later, and was about to go looking through her drawers when -

"Looking for this?"

He turned to see a fireman holding up Maria's slender laptop computer. He stared at the fireman, and was less than surprised when the man removed his helmet and a ragtop of faded green hair came tumbling out. The Joker grinned at him, the flames throwing into sinister detail the nicks and ridges of his scarred face. He wore no makeup, but that could not hide his scars; in fact, if anything, it made them stand out more. Batman could see, now more than ever, that the Joker had a kind of lopsided smile drawn into his face, rather than the more random, scattered scarring he had seen at the gala.

He supposed that was the magic of police-station makeup.

The Joker shifted his weight, staring eagerly at Batman, as if expecting some kind of retaliation. Instead, Batman stared at him, frowning. The Joker edged closer, still holding up the laptop, taunting Batman. He got within a few feet of him and grinned, chuckling, showcasing the laptop in his hands by moving it from side to side in front of Batman's view. "What are you gonna do about it, Bats?" he asked, licking his lips. "Hmm?" His voice had returned to that upbeat, maniacal lilt of his that drove Batman absolutely crazy - and haunted the worst nightmares of Bruce Wayne. Napier cocked his head in mocking inquiry. Batman frowned.

"Have you been drinking?" he asked.

"No more than usual," Napier replied airily, waving the subject off. He wet his lips again. Apparently the heat was making his lips chapped; between the fire and the heavy suit he had on, Batman was sure he was getting dehydrated. But the Joker did not seem to notice. He held the computer up for Batman to see, still smiling away at him.

"What do you want?" asked Batman. He guessed he had better deal with this with civility - unless the Joker's requests were too outrageous.

"Hm, well, it's hard to judge," Napier said. "Because what I hold in my hand is my identity. Also Doctor Crane's, if I'm not mistaken." He looked up, as if contemplating a spot on the burning ceiling would give him the answer he sought. "_Sooo_, whaddya say we swap?" He looked back at Batman, licking his lips again. "You take off your mask, and I'll take off mine," he said.

"No!" Batman exclaimed, and lunged for the Joker, tackling him to the ground. The laptop skidded across the floor, into the next room. Batman picked up the Joker and slammed him against the wall.

Napier cringed, then grinned at Batman. "Oh, so you like it rough, do you? Mm… I bet you're great in bed!"

Batman threw him against an opposite wall, and Napier let himself sink to the bottom of the wall in a sitting position. He looked over to his right. There was the window. That was Batman's only chance of escape from the burning building… he had seen to it, himself. He sat, his long legs splayed out in front of him, his hands folded together, twiddling his thumbs, biting his lip, waiting for Batman to return.

Batman chased the laptop computer into the next room and grabbed it, then started back to the bedroom, and was met with an unpleasant surprise: right next to the window, his only exit, sat the Joker, who was watching him expectantly. "Move," Batman insisted.

Napier looked left and right, shrugged, and looked up at Batman. "As far as I'm concerned, I'm the only one sitting here." he said. "So… technically, I don't have to."

Batman growled in frustration, holding tightly onto the laptop. His only chance would be to try to get past the Joker. He started for the window, had gotten almost out of it, when he felt his leg grabbed and himself being pulled back into the burning building. Joker started beating him in the face with his gloved fist, and was about to remove his mask when Wayne kicked him, hard, in the groin. Napier cried out in pain, collapsing, and Batman was able to push him off and start for the window again. He was about to jump out of the window again when he was grabbed around the throat and dragged back into the room. This guy had insane resilience!

Batman reached for Napier's chokehold with his one free hand, and, unable to pry his vice-like grip loose, he elbowed the man in the stomach. Napier's grip loosened, and Batman was able to pull himself loose. He punched Napier across the face, and Napier fell to the ground. Then, bending over him, Batman grabbed him by the back of his uniform and dragged him over to the fire. Napier tried to struggle free, but Batman held him fast, and spitefully shoved Napier's face into the fire. "How do you like _that?!_" Batman growled.

The Joker shouted in pain, trying to beat the fire away from his face, but the flames licked up and caught his hair, and from there, his eyebrows. He screamed, finally ripping himself free from Batman's grip, and rolled around on the floor. The little fire that had flared up in his bangs quickly died, but when he looked up at Batman again with hateful, red-rimmed eyes, his eyebrows were all but gone. Batman stared at him for a long moment, then, the laptop secured under his arm, he leapt from the window and soared smoothly to the ground.

"Here," he said, handing the laptop to Gordon. "You might want to take a look at this."

Gordon looked down at the laptop. When he looked up again, Batman was gone. Then he looked to the window of the burning building and saw the Joker, in his fireman garb, standing at the window, leaning out of it, looking every bit a hulking psychopath. Then he disappeared inside the building, and, after a few moments of him not reappearing, Gordon had to get into his police cruiser. He had to make sure the kids were kept safe… and Maria, too.

Wherever she was.

Maria could only watch in horror from across the street as her life went up in flames.

The apartment was beyond saving. Even she could see that. The firemen had done all they could, but they couldn't work miracles. She could accept that. She could even accept that all of her work, her papers, even her laptop, were now destroyed. She'd just have to start over. What she really wanted to know was how the fire had been started. From the flames licking out of her windows, it was pretty obvious that it had begun in her apartment. Maybe the kids had done something. Or maybe Maxy had knocked something over, like a candle. She frowned. She didn't have any candles. That only left the option of arson, but who in Gotham would want to burn her out...?

She swallowed and stopped that thought. It just wasn't arson, that was all.

Finally, she decided to just go ask Gordon, who'd arrived at the scene only minutes ago. She wondered about her lack of a panic attack as she approached the ring of police and firemen around her apartment building, then dismissed it with a numb shrug. She was probably just going through shock. She'd feel this later.

Just then, she noticed the furry body lying on a gurney stained with a bloody smile. She stopped moving, then stopped breathing. That was Max.

Someone was screaming; she could hear it faintly past her own thumping heartbeat as she rushed over to the gurney. The Joker's smile was painted in her own dog's blood. She touched it with a shaking hand, accidentally smearing it onto Max's fur. A policeman came up behind her and grabbed her shoulder, and she shook him off forcefully and sank to her knees. She finally realized that the horrible screaming was coming from herself. As soon as she thought that, it stopped, and she stood up.

A few officers nearby gave her concerned glances, but she waved them off with a shake of her head. One told her that she'd have to go down to the station to talk to Gordon about this, and she mutely agreed before being put gently in a police cruiser. It didn't matter what she did now. Nothing really mattered, actually, except for one thing.

That bastard Jack Napier had taken away the last little bit of her family she had. And he was going to fucking pay for it.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

"Honey! I'm home!" Napier called bitterly, unlocking the door of Jeanette's hotel room with the extra key she had given him the day before. He knew she was not there; she was probably out curing her bout of boredom by sniping some poor, unknowing citizen - especially since he had told her he did not have any plans to cause trouble until at least tomorrow. Well, he thought, he was only going one place, and it did not really concern her. What she did not know could not hurt her.

But once he had gone to that one place and picked up his suitcase and his jacket (which were thankfully still where he had left them the night he had met up with Jeanette), he had heard the sirens and had instantly been drawn to the site of the disaster. When he had arrived, hanging back in the shadows, he had heard the name "Maria" tossed out by a few of the officers. Then the name "Crane" came up in the conversation, and the word "author", too. A horrid grin had split his face at that. Now he not only knew her name, but also where she lived - or had lived, until this fire had destroyed her apartment. He could not help himself; being himself, he was automatically inclined to make a bad situation, worse.

But it had not gone his way at all. And now, as he slammed the door shut behind him and made his way to the kitchen, he put a wary hand to his forehead, angrily smoothing over where his eyebrows had once been. He gritted his teeth in frustration, fumbling with his fire-fighting outfit, then, unable to get it undone in his irate state, he gave up and ducked under the counter, pulling something out of her mini-bar and leaning back against the counter, twisting it open.

"How was your day at work today, honey?" he growled, twisting the cap off and tossing it onto the counter, where it bounced and clattered away. "Oh, just fine," he answered himself, "just fucking fine. I lost my eyebrows and got my ass handed to me by Gotham city's friendly neighbourhood do-gooder, and now the whole world will know my identity and some slanted, faulty version of my history - but hell, darlin', I've never been better!" He took a long swig of the drink, then brought it away, breathing heavily. Then he looked down at his fireman's garb, his breathing starting to slow.

That was going to be interesting to explain to Jeanette.

His hand unconsciously went back to his face, where he felt the singed lack of eyebrows, and then his fingers trailed down to the scars that marked either side of his face, and he sighed. He looked at the little bottle in his hand, then set it down on the counter. He paused, then got back to his feet and started for Jeanette's bathroom. It was dark in there, and he put a hand to the light switch, hesitated, and then turned on the light and looked up at himself in the mirror.

Napier barely recognized the man who stood before him. He was dressed in a charred fire-fighting outfit, with a ragged, sweaty swathe of faded green hair, no eyebrows, and uneven, grinning scars running from either side of his mouth. He lifted his gloved hands and looked at them, covered in blood. Then he looked back up at himself. He hated himself; he hated the way he looked, the way he sounded, the way he walked, his little idiosyncrasies. He hated everything about himself. He looked down at his hands again and they started to shake, slightly at first, and then violently. Then, frowning darkly, he looked back up at his reflection and, with a cry of anger, he put his fist through the mirror, shattering it onto the bathroom floor.

Napier stepped back from the wreckage, breathing heavily. Good riddance, he thought. Of course Jeanette would not be happy about his destruction of her property, but she had money; she could fix something as petty as a mirror easily. Though he doubted she would, as he would probably just break it again. He turned the light out in the bathroom and started back to the kitchen, where he found his half-empty bottle still sitting on the counter. He heaved himself up into a sitting position on the counter and, removing his bloody gloves and laying them aside, took the bottle in his hands and took another swig from it. Then he just sat there, waiting for Jeanette to return, the little bottle held forlornly between his knees, staring down at his booted feet.

Maybe this whole partnership thing was a bad idea, after all. Jeanette was bound to get curious, too, after a while. What would he tell her? The same bullshit story he had fed Maria? Or maybe he could make something up even more elaborate, or twisted, or sympathetic… he had to read her first.

Jeanette, he had discovered, was a hard woman to read.

He brought the bottle back to his mouth and finished it, then put it in the sink with a heavy sigh. He was starting to sound like Doctor Crane… and that was the _last_ thing in the world he wanted to be.

Jeanette had been pleasantly surprised to discover a full spa on the bottom floor of the hotel. She wondered briefly how she'd missed it coming in (the huge, blue neon lights ought to have tipped her off) but she stopped worrying about it when she entered and saw the masseur. He had pale green eyes that stood out sharply against his tan and some good muscles, if the bulges in his shirt had anything to say about it. She smiled flirtatiously at him, and he looked her over appreciatively with a grin. That settled things.

She booked an hour appointment with the cute brunette. Her muscles _were_ pretty tense, she reasoned, after the stress of the last few days. She _deserved_ some luxury. As she undressed and wrapped herself in a towel, though, she smiled. Those who knew her considered her quite the whore, to be frank. She gave a mental shrug. So she liked to have some fun when she wasn't off killing people and robbing banks and the like. Sue her.

A few minutes later, he entered wearing just a pair of shorts. Jeanette carefully ignored him, facing the wall and setting her cheek on her hand. He took his cue and silently stood next to her, hands flitting across her shoulders until they began to knead out the kinks and hard spots in her muscles. She sighed and closed her eyes. The comfortable silence went on for a few minutes as he worked his way down to the center of her back. Then Mark (as she'd come to know him) spoke for the first time since their polite introductions.

"I hear you brought a guy in off the streets."

She sighed and turned her head towards him. "And where'd you hear _that_ from?" she asked with a tiny smile. She was honestly curious; she had thought that bringing Napier in at night, and through a back entrance, might have kept her out of the way of this sort of question. Apparently not.

"A little birdie told me," he said in a singsong tone. "Honestly? Everyone here watches you." He paused and leaned down to look her in the eye. "You're obviously pretty well-off if you've been staying here for almost a month. Not to mention you're _worth_ watching." He grinned and went on with the massage, pressing out a knot in her lower back. "But that's beside the point. Who is this guy?"

Jeanette thought for a minute, and decided that lying was the safer option. "Just a friend. Needed a place to stay for a bit." The answer seemed good enough for him, and their session went on in silence.

Far over an hour later one of the receptionists came to check on them, and Mark quickly pulled his hands out from the towel covering her lower half. "The appointment's over," the receptionist informed him primly, with a very disapproving glance at Jeanette. She grinned back at the girl haughtily and trailed a hand along Mark's shoulders on her way out. A single look back found the receptionist steaming and glaring daggers at her. Jeanette smiled.

She only had to wait a minute or so for the masseur to meet her in the main hall of the hotel, and they laughed and giggled as they raced each other to the elevator, and then to her room. She fumbled with her key-card, smacked his hand away once when he grabbed her shoulder in an effort to plant a kiss on her cheek, and finally managed to unlock the door. Then they stepped inside.

To find her house guest sitting on the kitchen counter.

She shoved Mark back out of the door as quickly as she could manage, then blocked his view. If he got too curious about Jack's scars..."We'll have to do this some other time," she explained in a low voice, accompanied by a shaky smile. "A bit of business to take care of." She could see curiosity in the man's eyes so, with a final shrug and a smile, she shut the door in his face.

Then she turned around slowly, taking in the sight before her. It was...interesting, to say the least. Jack's usual array of face paint was gone, and he wore a fireman's getup. A closer look revealed something even stranger. She took a few hesitant steps forward, then reached out a hand and traced a finger along where his eyebrows should have been. "What the hell happened?"

"Mm." He batted her hand away when she started touching his face. "Hey, no need to touch. Nothing big. Just had an… _accident_. With a… _razor_." He paused, staring at her. She was not buying it. "While I was… _shaving_," he added. His eyes flicked in the direction of the bathroom, then back to her face. "In the bathroom," he finished. He hesitated, then added, "I might've broken something in there."

He glanced over at his bloody gloves, and, picking them up, he stared at them. "The, uh, _fireman's garb_," he said, awkwardly pulling the first thing that came to mind, "is a, uh, _disguise_ I use… when I'm… feeling particularly…" He looked up at her. If he said 'horny', she would smack him into next week. Or shoot him. One or the other. He took a deep breath, setting aside the gloves, and then looked back up at her. "In need of a… uh, _shave_," he said. He cleared his throat, licking his lips. "I, uh, like to feel… _manly_, when I… shave." He paused, his eyes straying. "…My eyebrows." he added.

He looked back up at her. There was no way in hell she was going to buy a word of this. "I sometimes wear… _other_ disguises when I'm in… _other_ kinds of moods," he went on. "Like, uh, a _ceremonial military outfit_ when I'm feeling… _sprightly_, or a, uh… _nurse's dress_ when I'm feeling…" He stopped, watching her face. "You're not buying a word of this, are you?" he asked, monotone.

He rested his elbows on his knees, lightly touching his fingers together in a kind of nervous disposition, staring at the opening and closing diamond, then slid off of the counter and, taking the empty bottle out of the sink, tossed it towards the trash on the other side of the kitchen. Luckily for him, it found its way into the bin and landed with a padded thump amongst the other disposables. If she was not peeved at him now, she would be if he shattered glass in her kitchen. Then again, he thought, it would match her bathroom. He turned and looked at her, expressionless, then, looking her up and down, asked,

"Would you like to know how I got my scars?"

She eyed him with a flat expression, then followed the bottle he'd thrown to the trash can. Of fucking _course_ she wasn't buying a word of it, she thought as she picked up the bottle and inspected the label with raised eyebrows. That was some powerful stuff he'd been drinking. She pursed her lips. Something had happened, and he wasn't sharing.

Dropping the bottle back into the trash, she turned back towards the counter. "You're wearing a fireman's uniform, and the skin's charred. They were _singed_ off." She raised her eyebrows. "I'm not stupid, and I'd ask that you not act like I am." With that, she was quite ready to go back out the door and find an empty room with Mark.

Then the question caught her. His scars? She eyed them curiously. Of course she wanted to know. It was one thing she couldn't find out on her own. She _had_ checked, of course; the police records she'd stolen showed no indication of a recent injury that may have caused them, which meant it had to be something in his past. And, of course, his past was what she was most interested in.

She shrugged and tilted her head as if she only half-cared, though. It probably wasn't good to let him know quite how interested she was.

"I never said you were _stupid_," he countered, folding his arms and leaning back against the counter. "I just… _elaborated_ a little." He frowned for a moment, then looked back up at her and asked in a flat, questioning tone, "Would you believe me if I said I did it with a match…?" He hesitated, waiting for an answer, and then sighed in defeat. "It's not important," he finally said, waving it off. "It was a stupid move, and now it's done, and I don't want to talk about it."

He looked up at her, at her semi-curious expression, and half-grinned, the scars accentuated on his face. "_Do_ you?" he asked in interest. "I think you do." He wet his lips, looking down at his feet, then pushed himself off of the counter into a standing position and started rubbing his hands together, as if it were helping him to think. He nodded slowly to himself, biting his lip, then started, "Well, you see… when I was younger, I had this habit… of always burying little dead creatures that I found. Out of respect, like," he added, holding out his hands in explanation. Then they went back to rubbing together.

"Well, soon, I had a nice little animal cemetery in my backyard." he said thoughtfully, his eyes darting from one side of the floor to the other, never meeting her eyes. His tongue flashed out again, wetting his lips, and he went on, "And pretty soon, when I started to find less and less dead animals in the road, I began killing animals, myself… to bury them in my cemetery." He nodded slowly, swallowing, thinking. "Well, my dad… he was an awful type, the kind of person you only read about in those… _psychiatrist_ cases, or _murder_ cases… he would go out and drink himself senseless, then come back and beat my mother… and I would listen, and I died a little on the inside every time he did that. So did she."

He paused, wetting his lips again. He mouthed something unintelligible, then opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, and closed it again. "There was this kid on my street at the time… goody two-shoes little snotty-nosed brat type, you know 'em. Well, one night, while I was out in my backyard cemetery, this kid comes along… and he says to me, he says, 'What are you doing?' And I look up at him, and I say, 'well, obviously I'm digging a grave.'" He paused, considering his words. "And he says, 'who for?' And I said, 'well, for my mother, of course. For when he finally kills her.'"

Napier slowly shook his head, thinking. "And he just looks at me…" At this, his eyes flicked to Jeanette's face, and he took a step nearer to her. "And he says, 'what are you talking about? You're digging a grave for your mother, and she's not even dead yet?' …And I turned, and I looked at him…" He looked away again, carefully considering his words. "And I told him, 'she'll be happier here. I'm sure all of us will be happier when we're dead.'" He shook his head again, his brow furrowing slightly. "And he just stares at me… and the he says to me… 'you're crazy.'"

The corner of his scarred mouth turned up at this. "Well, that wouldn't do… so I said to him, I said, 'you've got such a grim outlook…'" His eyes returned to Jeanette's face, and the other corner of his mouth turned up into a malicious grin. "And I said to him…" he took another step closer to her, and, nearing his face to hers, he said in almost a whisper, but still plenty loud enough for her to hear, "'_WHY - SO - SERIOUS?_'" He grinned widely at her, then leaned back, giving her back some semblance of personal space. He raised a hand, looking at it. "And I took my shovel," he said, "and I struck him with it - right across the back of the head. And he fell… and he just lay there. And blood started pooling around his head…"

He lowered his hand, his eyes straying. "Well, I couldn't just leave him there," he said airily. "I had to do something with him… So I put his body into the grave I had dug for my mother, and buried him, right there in my back yard, along with all the little animals… so he could be happy." He put a hand gently to the scars on his face. "And then I took out my pocket-knife," he said, "and I… slit open my mouth on both sides… because if I couldn't smile… if I didn't have a happy disposition… then I was fated to die miserable… just like that boy."

He stayed that way for a moment, with his hand on his scars, staring out into space, then he dropped the hand from his face and looked back at her as if nothing had happened. He smiled at her. "I think I'm going to raid your mini-bar again," he said, ducking under the counter. "I'm parched."

Her eyes very carefully didn't stray from Napier's face during his story, and her feet stayed very carefully planted where they were. Jeanette point-blank refused to show any sign of discomfort. Why would she? She couldn't exactly say that she'd heard worse (even in the colorful crime circles she usually worked with), but this little tale was just another fact, another note that she'd store in her laptop and use to analyze the man who called himself the Joker.

Plus, there was another little snag. "Now, before I start asking the typical questions like 'did it hurt' or 'why the hell would you do that'..." She paused and looked out the window again. The sun was starting to inch down towards the horizon. "Why should I believe you?"

She moved over to the mini-bar and cut off Napier's path. She wanted to talk while he was still sober, and she got the distinct feeling that he'd had enough alcohol for the day. The thought almost made her smile; she felt like such a _mother_. "Honestly, that sounded more like a story. A story you'd like to _intimidate_ me with." She stretched out her words and finally met his gaze again with a steely expression that finally cracked with a nonchalant smile.

"Try harder."

He was surprised when she asked why she should believe him. He was even more surprised when she stepped in the way of the mini-bar, blocking him from it. And, to top it all off, she called his spin a _story_ - the nerve! For all she knew, that could have been the real story, and she could have been insulting him… but it had not been, and he knew it. He had never given the real version of the story; every one had either been a little bit twisted, like the tale he had told Maria, or entirely convoluted, like this yarn he had just spun for Jeanette. He had thought this version of the story would work for her.

He had thought wrong.

That was a disappointment. He had mapped this story out so clearly, thought up every last little detail… only to have her see right through it. He stared at her, crossing his arms again. She was just being stubborn. She was using his own shortcomings against him. First his clothes, and now this. Then again, he thought, maybe she had a point… his head was starting to feel a little light and fuzzy. But he waved it off. What did _she_ know about those kinds of things? And anyways, he was not about to let someone smaller than him get the better of him.

He looked her up and down, thinking, then said, "I tell you what. You're absolutely right. That was a total tall tale - all of it, _pft!_ lies." He expressed with a flick of his wrist. "But if I tell you another version of the story, how are you to know whether it's the real one or not? I could tell the story a thousand different ways, and there's really no way for you to know which one is the truth." He cocked his head, looking at her. "For example… what if I told you that, uh, I was tossed from a building, through the window… it cut up my face real, real bad. When I got to the hospital, uh, they stitched up my face, and the scars… formed this shape." He traced the shape in the air in front of his grinning scars. "Would you believe that?"

He tried to step around her, only to find himself thwarted again. "Okay, uh, what if I told you I was trying to tune a piano, and the very highest string snapped while I was tightening it and sliced open my face?" He looked up at her again, scrutinizing her. "Would you believe that?" He tried to step around her the other way, but found his way blocked there, too. He sighed. "What if I told you I didn't even _remember _the real way the story went?" he asked, a little exasperated. "Would you believe me then?"

He walked away a few steps, then turned back to face her, leaning against the counter, and exhaled heavily. "What do you _want_ to hear?" he asked, defeated.

Jeanette shrugged and blinked a few times. "I _wouldn't_ know if you're lying. In fact, I didn't even know if that one was a lie. But, since my fingers are all still attached," she wiggled the digits in the air, "I think it's safe to assume that you weren't offended and it _was_ a lie." She grinned. Damn, she impressed herself sometimes.

Now that Napier finally seemed to have given up on the mini-bar, she reached down and opened it herself. Tugging a bottle of red wine from the fridge, she continued. "I'd obviously _love_ for you to tell the truth," she said with a shrug that clearly said it wasn't going to happen. She straightened up and shut the door. "Or you could just leave it. It's not like some puny little thing like me could force you to do something you don't want to," she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. Size didn't make any difference when you had the right tools. And, even without her trusty handgun that was usually tucked inside her pocket, Jeanette had a few other tricks to make a fight interesting. She'd learned her lesson from being jumped one too many times on Gotham's streets.

She opened the bottle with a flick of the wrist clearly meant to tick him off, then drank a sip of the wine.

He could've kicked himself. She didn't know his story was a lie, but then he had to go and blow it! Him and his big mouth. He frowned as she showcased her hands and explained her reasonings to him. She was sure getting the big head about this. He would just have to cut her down to size, he decided.

He bit his lip, catching himself before he stood and started for her when she opened the mini-bar and took out the bottle of red wine. He watched her avidly, his dark eyes following her every motion, listening to her sarcastic quips, and frowned when she popped the cork with a flourish that was obviously meant to peeve him. He was not about to let her see that her little ploy to piss him off was working better than, perhaps, even she thought it would, so he just crossed one leg over the other and continued staring at her from his post against the opposite counter.

He wet his lips, considering what to say to her. "You think you're gonna get to me with this… deprivation method," he said, indicating her, not really sure what to call her very effective - and very annoying - ploy to get a story out of him, "but you've got another thing coming. Oh, yeah. I'm not that easy to get to." He tapped his temple with a grin. "You wanna get in here, you've gotta try a little harder than that." He folded his arms again, staring at her. She was killing him with this, and she knew it.

"But I tell you what," the words almost fell out of his mouth unintentionally as he watched her take a sip of the wine, "we can be friends about this. Hm? I'm sure we can work something out." He paused, a bit taken aback by his own suddenness, and cleared his throat, then wet his lips again. "You… want to know my story," he said. "I…" _what? I want you to move out of the way so I can get smashed and forget I got my ass kicked by Batman?_ Not _just_ his ass, he thought bitterly. _I want you to sleep with me?_ Psh, he would never even _consider_ saying that to her. And besides, it wasn't necessarily true.

…Necessarily.

He hesitated. "I… don't want to give it to you," he finally decided on. He cocked his head at her with a feisty grin. "And I don't see that you have anything to persuade me to give it to you, in all actuality." He looked her up and down. "You're not very intimidating, in and of yourself… and I agreed to _work_ with you, not tell you everything about myself." He inspected the nails of one hand nonchalantly. "And besides, even if you were to convince me… somehow," he said airily, "how would you know if I was telling the truth _that_ time?"

He looked up at her now, folding his arms again. "So, you see," he said, "it appears we are at… a stalemate."

"Stalemate?" She smiled, and it reached her eyes. Oh, he was being serious. "Hardly." She raised the wine bottle to her lips but then lowered, holding it just out of his reach. It was very, very obvious that this was getting to him. His eyes followed the bottle everywhere like a hawk. Might as well torment him for a little bit longer; it'd keep his attention. "I'm not intimidating, huh?" She smiled and went on, "Let's talk about that."

She sighed again and cracked her neck. "I don't look intimidating, do I?" She held her arms up to her sides and looked down at herself. She wore a baby-blue tank top under a denim jacket and shorts. She looked more like a California beach bunny than a trained killer. Not intimidating in the least. Even she'd admit that. "_But_, the second I pull a gun out, I become a threat." She paused again, swirling the bottle around with a light grin. "Why's that?"'

"Because you have a gun," he said, pointing a finger of logic in her direction. "Without a gun, you're a hot babe. With a gun, you're a hot babe… with a gun. Which makes you hotter - depending on who you ask and what their individual fantasies consist of." The words 'hot babe' were awkward in his mouth. He would never use that phrase again, he decided. He did not want to make a fool of himself… as if he had not already. She was reading him like a book, a soggy book with garbled words sufficing for stories and a rubbed title. Well, if she liked that kind of literature, that was her deal, not his. At the moment, his entire focus was on winning this power struggle and getting that wine.

He suddenly realized how very pathetic his motives were.

Then again, he thought, he had already done his share of black-hearted deeds for the day, and had taken on his nemesis in heated, bare-fisted combat (even though they had both been wearing gloves), even if he _had _lost. So he was entitled to a little bit of pathetic.

He folded his arms, drumming the fingers of one hand against the bicep of the other arm, watching her. "I'm just telling it like it is," he answered with a shrug. "You look like a Hollywood centrefold, not an assassin. But," he added, "I know differently. You may not _look_ intimidating… but I know you could take out any normal person in a split second." He grinned at her, shifting slightly. "I've seen it," he said. "And just to clarify, I never said you _weren't_ intimidating… I just said you didn't _look_ intimidating. Which…" he scoffed, "ya don't. Sorry."

This was a lie, but he was not about to remind her that he had said, straight-out, that he was not intimidated by her. Truth was, if it was not for her, he would be living in the street, in some abandoned building or an alley somewhere, killing homeless people for their clothes and whatever they happened to carry on their person at the time - money, drink, cigarettes, whatever. He had not minded the life while he had been living it, but now he saw that the grass truly was greener on the other side, he was not about to bite the hand that fed him - especially if that hand now held something he very much wanted to get his own hands on.

He licked his lips, watching her. "Y'know," he said, "this is very _formal_. Don't you think it would be a lot easier to talk if we were to… sit down… on the couch, maybe, and… have a friendly glass of wine?" The kicker. If that did not scream 'pathetic', he did not know what did. "Or not," he added quickly, shifting back into his nonchalant, uptight, original position, arms and legs folded, leaning against the counter. "I'm perfectly fine here… talking with you like this." He shrugged. "It doesn't matter to me, I just thought… _you _might want to. But if you don't, then, yeah, sure, we can stay here." He cleared his throat and looked back up at her. "I prefer this. Mm-hm. Much more…" he paused, trying to find the word, "_conventional_."

Her usual smile finally turned into a full-bodied laugh, leaving her wiping at tears in her eyes. She looked pointedly at the mini-bar behind her legs, then back at Napier's face. "You're joking. Right?" She shook her head and her laughing finally died away. She shouldn't have giggled at that, really; it probably wasn't good to antagonize him, especially if he had a bit more muscle than she.

She had to prove a point, though. "You really do need to learn how to bluff," she informed him, before finally stepping away from the tiny refrigerator. If he wanted to drink whatever had happened to his eyebrows away, then she wasn't going to stop him. The living room couch actually sounded quite comfortable at the moment, so she headed there and flopped onto the plush cushions.

She pressed a hand against the burgandy fabric and wondered if they should move. The masseur's comment from earlier worried her. She was aware that a rich, somewhat attractive female like herself drew attention very quickly, which was why she'd stayed on the move for the last few months. The fact that special attention was being paid to her, ah, "roommate" was unnerving, though. If anyone recognized him, the cops would be swarming the hotel before you could say "Joker."

Maybe she'd look up some nice apartment complexes. Something with a spa nearby would be best. She grinned.

He frowned when she started laughing at him. _That _was not supposed to happen. He suddenly felt very self-conscious. Before, when it had been a power struggle, he had felt totally at ease with her knowing what kind of power she held. But now, now that she was making a point of showing him how pathetic his motives were, he was starting to feel a little insecure. Then, as she told him off, he pushed the thought from his mind. That he was trying to mindtrap her into moving aside so he could raid her liquor cabinet was not what was truly pathetic - what was _truly_ pathetic was that he actually felt self-conscious about doing it.

He watched as she moved away from the mini-bar and crossed to the living-room, where she sat herself down on the couch. He got up from the counter and crossed to the mini-bar, ducking under the counter, opening it, and running a finger over each of the labels in turn. He had no idea what each of them meant, but he picked out something that looked promising, closed the refrigerator, and unscrewed the top, taking a swig. He had to exhale in surprise; that was some strong stuff. He shook his head, trying to clear it, then moved into the living-room and leaned against the back of the couch, looking at Jeanette and nursing the bottle of liquor.

He took a swig and considered her; she was very pretty, he had to admit that. Moreover, she was _sexy_; that was not a word that came to his mind often. He usually tried to stay away from such modern terms. They always seemed awkward when they came to mind, but he could not help but admit that there was definitely something _sexy_ about this woman. He took another swig from the bottle, then licked his lips thoughtfully, still watching her.

"I'm curious about you," he finally said, indicating her with the bottle. "You're so rich and… attractive," that was the only word he could think of that would not sound awkward coming off his tongue, "and you've obviously got a great personality, since you so easily got the… very _enthused_ attention of… what's his face," he indicated towards the doorway with the bottle before taking another swig. He swallowed, then went on, "So why don't you have a boyfriend by now?" He glanced down at the bottle in his hands, swirling what little liquid there was left in the bottom. Then he looked back up at her. "Not that I'm trying to pry or anything," he said, shrugging. "I'm just… curious."

He finished the bottle, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and set the empty bottle on the floor. Then he leaned against the back of the couch again, watching her. "So?" he asked. "Do I get an answer, or is that one of those 'confidential things'?" He made a jazz-hands motion for this, then grinned at her and went back to leaning against the back of the couch. "Hm?"


	17. Chapter Sixteen

Gordon sat at his desk, drumming his fingers on the smooth, shiny surface of Maria's laptop. Both of the children had been taken to the hospital, but he was sure that Maria would be brought here, to the police station, first, so that they could explain the situation to her. He did not doubt that she had been informed, if not shown, that her dog had been… murdered, he guessed, was the correct term, by the Joker. Gordon had not seen Wayne arrive at the scene the entire time he had been there, but it was always possible that Wayne had arrived late, since he, Gordon, had left early.

He sighed, looking down at the laptop. This was all that was left of Maria's apartment, of her life… unless the firemen could manage to save something from the apartment once they had gotten rid of the fire. Gordon doubted it, though; as a writer, he assumed most, if not all, of Maria's important things were paper goods, and therefore had no chance whatsoever of being spared from the fire.

He looked up as the doors of the station opened and Wayne came in, looking flustered. Gordon sat back in his chair and watched as Wayne looked around for him, and finally, catching sight of him, started towards his desk. "Sorry I'm late," he said, breathless.

"I didn't see you at the scene," Gordon observed. "Did you get lost?"

"I took a wrong turn," Wayne answered, catching his breath.

Gordon nodded. "You sound out-of-breath, Bruce," he said. "Hard time driving?"

Wayne grinned at Gordon patiently. "Had a bit of an _incident_ getting here," he said.

Gordon leaned forward in his chair, folding his hands on top of the laptop. "Incident?" he asked, interested.

Wayne was about to open his mouth to make up some kind of ludicrous story about being lured out of his car by some pretty girl in a cop uniform and then chased up four flights of stairs and down a fire escape by some thug with a gun who was working with the girl, when he was saved by the doors opening and an officer ushering in none other than Maria, herself. Wayne leaned back in his chair as she approached, watching her with interest. She seemed terribly upset. He supposed he would be, too, if his house had burned to the ground.

Wait a minute.

His eyes followed her as she was offered a seat by the policeman, then lingered on her as she took her seat.

Gordon glanced over at her, then sighed. "I'm terribly sorry about all of this, Maria," he said quietly. Then, picking up the laptop, he gently handed it to her. "Batman managed to save that for you," he said. "The Joker was trying to get it."

Wayne nodded distractedly, watching Gordon hand over the laptop. "Shouldn't that stay in police possession?" he asked, a bit warily. "For evidence reasons. Since the Joker was trying to get it… and all."

Gordon looked at him, then looked back at the laptop. "Well, unless there's something vitally important on there that Maria can't tell us about, herself, I don't see why it shouldn't be returned to its owner," he said. Then he turned back to Maria. "Do you have any idea why the Joker would try to steal your laptop?" he asked. "Or… want to… kill your dog?" This last was a bit touchy, and probably a bad idea.

Wayne cringed at the last question. "Let's stick with the laptop," he said, dismissing Gordon's second question and looking over at Maria. "Any idea why he would want to steal it?"

Maria half-listened to Gordon's questions, cradling her laptop on her knees. This was all that was left, and it wasn't much. Just a few cruddy documents were saved on her computer, the things that she hadn't written down by hand. The choppy beginnings to stupid romances, or notes from interviews...She laughed with more than a trace of bitterness. "Oh, great. The big hero of Gotham comes to save my poor laptop from certain destruction." She leaned her elbows on her knees and buried her face in her hands. A muffled "how lovely" came from behind her fingers.

She stayed in this position to think. Gordon said that the Joker had been trying to get his grubby hands on her laptop, of all things. She distinctly remembered leaving her wallet on the desk next to her laptop; why hadn't he gone for that? Or for her jewelry? Her laptop wasn't exactly the highest quality, her restricted income had seen to that. So why...?

Finally she remembered something. She removed her head from her hands and flipped open the lid of the computer, booting it up as she spoke. "The only thing he might be after is his history," she muttered, more to herself than the two men. She looked up to them with dull eyes. "The night of the Wayne Enterprises gala, in the car...he told me how he got the scars around his mouth. And lots more." She paused, then nodded as she added, "Like how he'd been married to Kitty."

The main screen finally showed up and she opened a word processor. Sure enough, the first on her list of recent documents was titled "Napier". She clicked on it and leaned forward to set the laptop on Gordon's desk. "That's the only reason I can think of for him trying to steal it. Other than the fact that he's a sadistic bastard, of course," she added darkly, again fighting against the memory of her dog lying on the gurney.

With the main order of business taken care of, she leaned back in her seat and rubbed her aching head. Jeez, that was a bad headache...she'd take it over a panic attack any day, though. "Officer Gordon...Mr. Wayne," she added, nodding in his direction, "I'd prefer if I wasn't involved in this...case...any more." She hoped that the officer was as compassionate as he seemed. "I'd be happy to take care of the kids until you find them a foster home and everything, just..."

The tears she hadn't realized she'd been holding off finally came. She quickly looked away out the window and swiped angrily at her red eyes. "I just want this to be over."

"What?" Gordon eagerly started scrolling through the document. "You got him to talk? That's…"

"Improbable," Wayne said, looking over at her. "It's not that we don't believe you - we _do_ - but the history he told you was probably a tall tale."

"Though it makes no sense that he would try to nab it if it were a tall tale," Gordon argued, skimming the document.

Wayne looked over at him. "Unless he doesn't want any record of his story to be released," he replied. "There might have been a grain of truth in what he told you, and he doesn't want that to be publicly circulated. There are probably people out there who would take advantage of him if they knew anything about his past."

Gordon looked up at this, then looked over at Maria. "We would never ask you to do anything that's beyond your comfort level," he said kindly, folding his hands on his desk. "If you would like to drop out of this investigation, then you are more than welcome to do so."

"What? She can't do that," Wayne countered. Gordon looked over at him in surprise. "Napier wants Maria. So does Crane. If she drops out of this investigation and something happens to her, then what?" He looked over at Maria. "At the moment, you've got police forces protecting you at your every move," he said. "If you drop out, those forces will be removed."

"You're right," Gordon admitted. "You would be much less protected from Napier and Crane. And where would you live?" He turned to look at Maria, sadness in his kind blue eyes. "I'm sure one of our female officers would be willing to give you a home temporarily…"

"Kitty," Wayne said. Gordon looked over at him in interest.

"What?" he asked.

"She can live with Kitty," Wayne said, "at least until she finds a proper home. And she can tell Kitty about Napier."

"We would have to get Kitty's consent first," Gordon pointed out. "But we haven't heard from her since that day at the station." He leaned back in his chair, staring at the laptop. "Another dead end," he said quietly.

Maria simply shrugged at Wayne's response to the document. He was probably right. So was Gordon, though. The stuff about Kitty seemed too genuine and heartfelt to be a lie.

Her thoughts were scattered at Wayne's outburst. She stared at him. His words made sense, but she didn't _want_ to go hide and be protected. If anything, she wanted to go screaming around the streets for Napier, get a gun, and kill the bastard. But she answered, "If something happens to me, they'll just keep being the crazies they were in the first place." She shrugged, very close to saying it didn't matter either way, but held back. That almost sounded like a suicidal tendency, and Gordon wouldn't be too happy to hear that.

Suddenly she gasped. "Oh my God. Kitty. I completely forgot..." She tried to remember exactly what Aidan had told her about the woman. "I ran into a friend just before the fire who said that Kitty was in some kind of trouble," she told the men. "He said...he said something about her being with two guys and a girl, I think. And that Jeannie Rose was with them. I was actually heading back to the apartment to see if she'd called or something when I saw the fire."

Both Gordon and Wayne looked over at her at this. "What?!" Gordon exclaimed, sitting straight up in his chair, knocking over a mug of pencils on his desk. He hurriedly straightened them out, flustered, then turned back to Maria. "Kitty's in trouble?! Well, wh- Why didn't whoever told you come to us about it?!"

"Maybe there were other circumstances that made them not want to go straight to the police," Wayne said in a rather calmer voice, watching Maria intently.

"Wha - what in the world could make them think - why wouldn't they - ?!" Gordon spluttered, trying to get out a full sentence but failing. He finally consented by making surprised, somewhat disgusted noises. He looked at Wayne. "If Kitty's in trouble, then we have to help her! I mean, she's…"

"Important," Wayne nodded. "Almost as important as Maria."

"If not more!" Gordon exclaimed. "Bruce, she's - _she's the Joker's wife!_"

"We _think_," Wayne said.

"Well if she wasn't, then why would someone try to kidnap her?" Gordon asked, frantic.

Wayne frowned at this. "No one said anything about _kidnapping_," he said. "All she said was that there were two men and a woman with her. For all we know, these people could have been friends of hers."

"But then why would he say she was in trouble?" Gordon countered. He stood up from his chair, looking back at Maria. "I'm going to go to Kitty's place to see if she's there."

"Why would she be there if she was all the way downtown with a group of people?" Wayne asked.

"Well - well, I don't know!" Gordon exclaimed. "But maybe we'll find something that can lead us to her, and to Jeannie Rose. Maybe there's some kind of clue in her house as to where she went…!" He made an exaggerated motion of confused defeat. "I don't know, but I'm going," he said. "If you want to come, Maria, you can ride with me in the cruiser. If you don't…" He paused, catching his breath. "That's fine, too."

"I'll follow behind," Wayne said.

Gordon looked at him gravely. "Okay, just don't get _lost_ this time," he said. Then he turned and started for the doors of the station, going out towards his police cruiser.

Wayne glanced over at Maria. "I think it would be best if you went," he said, indicating after Gordon. He leaned back in his chair. "I'll catch up with you two," he said with a reassuring smile.

. . .

Flicker had been told to hold the child while Goodhart went into the hardware store and bought explosives. "They're for _logging_," Crane had explained slowly to the large man, speaking very slowly as if the big lug were an idiot, "and you want to get enough to take out ten large trees. _Large_ trees. _Ten _of them." He held up ten fingers for Goodhart. "Don't forget," he added, indicating the hardware store and pulling enough bills from his wallet to cover the cost. He handed them to the man with a wary frown. "I expect change," he told him flatly before letting him go.

Now they stood before Kitty's apartment, where Crane had first found her and her small child, and had first taken them hostage. He closed the door, locking it with Kitty's key, then handed her small handbag to Flicker to carry, rolling out the wick of one of the clumps of dynamite until he held up the frayed end. He got out his lighter, preparing to light it, but then paused, reconsidered, and shut it. Then he turned to Flicker with the wick. "Would you care to do the honours?" he asked with a cruel smile.

Tears were streaming down Kitty's face as the girl who called herself 'Flicker' lit the end of the wick and it started to burn. Crane dropped it to the ground, watching as the little sparkling flame retreated back towards the doorway. He put out a hand, watching the flame intently, and indicated for them to get out of there. This was going to be a dramatic explosion, and it would only be safe to watch from a distance. Crane moved quickly towards the end of the alley, then stopped, turning back. Goodhart and Flicker ran past him, but Kitty still stood there, staring in horror at the quickly receding wick that meant the end of her life as she knew it.

Crane gritted his teeth and looked back at the others. Goodhart still held Jeannie Rose, so there was no way Kitty was going to make a run for it. She would be afraid that Crane would hurt Jeannie Rose. He turned back to Kitty, frowned, let out his breath in an annoyed huff, and started back for her. "Come on, Kitty," he said, grabbing her bicep and trying to drag her away, but she pulled back, refusing to be dragged away. "Come _on_, Kitty!" he said, a bit more forcefully, pulling on her arm. She yanked her arm back, tears flowing freely down her face.

"NO!" she sobbed. "How can you_ do_ this?! This is my _life!_ Everything I own is in there!"

He grabbed her arm with both hands and tried dragging her away, but she dug her feet into the ground and refused to be moved. "Kitty, you've got to get out of here!" he exclaimed, annoyed and starting to worry a bit.

"NO!" Kitty screamed again. "You have to stop it! You have to!"

"I can't, it's done," Crane said, pulling hard on her arm. "You've got to come!"

"YOU HAVE TO STOP IT!" Kitty sobbed, staying her ground. Crane looked down at the wick, which had almost reached the door, and, biting the bullet, grabbed Kitty around the waist and started to full-body drag her away from the doorway. "STOP IT!" Kitty screamed, trying to break loose of him. She struck at his arms, but he did not let go. "LET _GO_ OF ME!"

"_Get down!_" Crane exclaimed, finally managing to get Kitty to the end of the alleyway. As the two got to the very end, the small house at the front of the street exploded. Crane crouched over Kitty, who covered her face with her arms. Ragged timbers, charred, unidentifiable pieces of what he assumed had been her household items, and tiny, fractured shards of glass rained down on the group. Finally, when the barrage was over, nothing but the foundation, blackened and empty, sat where Kitty's quaint little house had once been.

Crane looked up from his position on the ground, looked over his shoulder at the wreckage, then looked back, and his eyes instantly met with Kitty's. He sat crouched over her, seemingly protecting her with his small, slender body. He stared at her, and she stared back, and for a strange split second, he did not see the usual fear in her dull blue eyes. Instead, there was just an expression that looked, to him, to be… _surprise_.

Neither one said a word for a moment. Then Crane cleared his throat and, getting to his feet, brushed himself off haughtily, straightening out his jacket and smoothing back a lock of hair that had fallen out of place in the commotion. Then, swallowing and collecting back his usual uptight countenance, he said to the group, "We should get out of here. The police will be here in a minute or so." Then he started walking away.

Kitty watched him in surprise. Had he just…? No, she decided. It had been a coincidence. There was no way the mad doctor had a heart underneath his cold, meticulous façade. …Or did he? She had heard of stranger things. Who was to say it was impossible?

But then, as she felt herself yanked to her feet and dragged past the smouldering wreck of what had once been her house, the thought was pushed from her mind completely.

Doctor Crane, she decided, was totally and unforgivably heartless.

Flicker calmly pulled her hands away from her ears and propped them instead on her hips like an artist inspecting her work. That really was a big one. How many explosives had Goodhart bought? Ten? She'd have to remember the number. This little experiment was one she'd gladly repeat.

Then she noticed that Crane and Kitty were having a little moment. She watched him straighten up, and put back on his usual scowl, but she leered knowingly at him all the same, like they shared a secret. So Mr. Indifference had some kind of heart under that sour surface. She raised her eyebrows and turned away, snickering. Interesting.

"'Nother good one," she said in a content tone, stretching her arms up over her head. "Good thing nobody was inside." She looked at Kitty, who was once again being towed along by Goodhart, then at the little girl. She was adorable. Flick's lips turned up in a wistful smile. Kids in general were adorable, really. She used to babysit as a teenager, and would gladly start again. It was great spending time with people who didn't think you were stupid for watching cartoons. "So where're we off to next?"

Just then the horizon tipped to the side and Flicker's head hit the brick wall next to her. She straightened up instantly and grabbed her skull, which now felt like it was being beaten with a sledgehammer. "Wha' the hell...?" she muttered. Blackness began to creep into the edges of her vision, and her eyes widened in panic. What was this? She suddenly felt so tired she couldn't stand any more. She slumped against a wall, limbs hanging like lead from her body, and tried to remember the last time she'd slept. She couldn't remember, and that couldn't be good. She shook her head slowly to try and get rid of the fuzziness, then felt something wet on her lips. She put a shaky hand up and drew it away, glistening with blood. A nosebleed?

She laughed once in disbelief, then her head hit the concrete.

Crane glanced over at Flicker and sighed. Of course something like this would have to happen, just as they were trying to escape. He looked up at Goodhart. He already had his hands pretty much full, what with Kitty and Jeannie Rose, so he could not expect him to be able to carry Flicker as well… Just then, the sound of a car approaching reached Crane's ears and he turned, seeing Officer Gordon pull up to the scene. One policeman usually meant more would soon be coming - he had not expected them so soon, but perhaps the Gotham police department was brushing up on its rather abysmal skills - and he turned back to Goodhart.

Quick thinking was necessary. If he let Kitty walk on her own, then she might decide to make a run for it and get Officer Gordon's attention. If he let Kitty hold Jeannie Rose, then she might try to make a run for it, too. And he knew that Goodhart could not hold all three of them. He exhaled heavily, knowing what he had to do but hating it all the same.

"Give me the girl," he said to Goodhart, holding out his arms for Jeannie Rose. "You carry that one," he indicated Flicker with a hint of disdain. "I'll carry the little one." He took the still-sleeping Jeannie Rose into his arms and held her awkwardly. He really, _really_ hated children, and, even in his wildest ponderings, he had never considered himself to ever be the father of a _girl_. He shifted the sleeping child in his arms with a look of antipathy, and managed to glance Kitty's worried expression before turning away from her. He was not sure if the look was because a psycho was holding her child, or if it was because a psycho was holding her child _wrong_.

Either way, the little girl was a tiresome burden, and Crane could not wait until Flicker came to so that he could be rid of her.

He readjusted the girl in his arms, putting a hand to her head, placing it on his shoulder as he had seen people do with toddlers in hospitals or in films, then cleared his throat. He could still uphold some semblance of dignity, even while he held a little girl in a frilly pink dress in his arms. He frowned. He knew he must have looked absolutely ridiculous, but there was less than nothing he could do about that.

He turned back to Goodhart. "You've got Flicker? Good. We're going to use a back exit to get out of here." He pointed towards another side alley, away from Gordon's patrol car, then started down the alley, himself, without even waiting for Goodhart. He would follow, Crane knew; as long as he, Crane, held the card of Goodhart's daughter, he would not do anything against Crane's will. That thought made Crane grin wickedly. Oh, he thought, this was going to be fun.

Of course, it would be more fun once he no longer had to carry this bothersome load in his arms.

But the least he could do was try to enjoy it while it lasted.

. . .

As Gordon and Wayne frantically decided what to do, Maria suddenly wondered what Wayne was doing there anyways. He'd been present in the investigation ever since the movie theater incident, but she couldn't imagine why. He was Gotham's premier billionaire. Shouldn't he be off buying something ridiculously expensive, or picking up girls? In her experience, moneybags didn't usually take an interest in the general good.

She ended up nodding goodbye to Wayne and following Gordon to his car. Once she was safely inside with her seatbelt buckled, she turned to the commissioner with a frown. "My...friend...Aidan, the one who was with me the night of the gala, was the one who told me about this. And he was a _bit_ drunk at the time, so I don't think he would have been able to see that Kitty was in danger." Surprisingly, she was worried for Kitty, and not just because she was important to the case. Something about the poor woman struck a chord of sympathy in Maria. She really hoped nothing bad had happened.

She turned her thoughts back to Wayne and looked again at Gordon. "Why is Bruce Wayne involved in this thing?" It sounded rude the second it came out, but Maria was past caring. This was too suspicious, and if Wayne was going to insist she stay involved, then she damn well deserved to understand why _he_ was.

Gordon glanced over at Maria in surprise. Then, putting the car into gear and backing out of the lot, he said, "Your friend Aidan… he was the one who was with you the night we apprehended Napier, right?" He nodded, putting the car into Drive and starting up the street. "He always seemed a little hot-headed, I have to tell you," he admitted. "Though I don't think he would… or could… make something up like this, even if he was… a bit out of it." He skirted saying it straight-out. Gordon was a man of delicate words. "I just wonder if Kitty's actually okay, and all of this has been a big misunderstanding." He turned a corner with a sigh. "I sure hope that's the case…"

Then he frowned slightly. "Y'know, Maria, that's a good question," he said, nodding. "But I think I know the answer. See, Bruce Wayne owns a large portion of Gotham, what with Wayne Enterprises… and, believe it or not, the man, himself is a bit of a thrill seeker. You can imagine, being cooped up in a mansion like that with nothing but your money and your butler to keep you company."

He smiled, shrugging, his focus still on the road. "Bruce Wayne has taken an interest in other cases that Gotham's police force has done, mostly small things… but he seemed particularly interested in this. I'm not sure why… I guess it's the most exciting thing we've done to date. But, either way, he's opted to pay for some of the expenses that have stemmed from this investigation, so we're just glad to have him on our side." He frowned again. "As random as it may seem," he added.

Just then, his expression darkened into one of shock. "What the - ?" he breathed, staring ahead. He parked the car by the side of the road and got out, barely believing what he was seeing. Where Kitty's house once stood now sat nothing but an empty, blackened lot. He stared at the smouldering rubble in shocked disbelief. "What… happened?" he asked quietly, putting a hand to his head. "What… happened?" He stared at the wreckage for a long moment before getting out his walkie-talkie and calling in to the station. "All units, we have a… problem," he said, too flustered to figure out what to call it.

Gordon swallowed hard, then looked over at Maria. "I think… Kitty's really dead this time," he said weakly.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

Napier was smashed by the time he finally got up the courage to seat himself next to Jeanette on her couch. It had not taken much, as he had been drinking earlier in the day, but after his third or fourth supposedly inconspicuous trip to her mini-bar, he finally decided to give up on subtlety, and now had a row of little empty bottles lined up behind her couch. He seated himself heavily on the couch beside her, exhaling contentedly, then took a swig of the bottle he now held and turned to her, leaning an elbow on the back of the couch and grinning at her. "Y'know, you're not such a bad person after all," he said, his speech slow and heavy. "I bet you're actually a pretty fun person to be around, when you aren't trying to be all _macho_."

He looked away, taking another swig from his bottle, then paused, slowly running his tongue along his upper lip, thinking. Then he turned back to her. "Would you like to know how I got my scars?" he asked, a somewhat serious expression on his face. He swallowed, looking away again, and swirled the liquid around in the bottom of his bottle. "I'll tell you," he mumbled before she could answer. He took a breath, then began, "When I was younger, I fell in love with this… girl. Now, before you say anything," he said, looking back at her and starting to giggle for no apparent reason, "I know that's how all these stories start out, okay? But I'mnot making this up… mm. So…"

He looked away again, paused, and then went on, "So I fell in love with this girl, and, oh, man, I loved her. You know… the way love always is in the movies and stuff. Stuff you never expect to find in real life." He took another swig of his drink, paused, licking his lips, then went on, "But I had this problem, see, 'cause I was a drinker back then, pretty bad, too… and, uh, she didn't like that much, no, she didn't, so… well, I was in love with her and she was in love with me, so I asked her to marry me, and she wanted to, but there was the problem of my drinking, right… so she says, I'll give you one week to get your life in order, Jack. Tha's what she said."

He took another swig of his drink, then stared at the almost-empty bottle for a long moment before taking a breath and continuing, "You know m'name is Jack… of course you knew that already." He glanced over his shoulder towards the mini-bar, then decided it was too much trouble to get up and get himself another drink and finished his off, then put it behind the couch with the other empty bottles. Then he turned back to Jeanette. "So I did it," he went on. "I wassober in a week, and we got married, me n' Kitty. And, uh, well, things didn't go so good after that… it wasn't easy staying sober, an' I fell offa the wagon a couple times…"

He looked down at his hands, biting his lip, then continued, "So then one day she comes to me, an' she tells me she's pregnant. So I think, well, I gotta do something, I gotta get up off my _butt_ and get some money for her and the baby… so I tried… comedy." He chuckled at this, looking away. "I was _not_ funny," he said, with perhaps a bit too much emphasis on the word. "Nobody laughed at my jokes. Everybody thought I was prob'ly the _worst_ comedian they'd _ever_ seen. Well, that didn't help my drinking at - _all_, no… so now we were broke, I was… boring, and unfunny… and _drunk_," he emphasized this word, dragging it out in a low voice, his mouth hanging slightly open. "So Kitty decides… she wants to do some work."

He cleared his throat, thinking. "She starts working in a little coffee-shop, and one day I was visiting her, tryin' to get rid of a hangover with some black coffee… and these guys come in, real shif… real shad… real unpleasant, like." He paused, trying to collect his head enough to continue his story. "And they come over to me, an' apparently I looked like I didn't have a job or somethin', 'cause one of 'em says to me, he says, Do you need work, son?" He let out a short exhale in retrospect. "Ionno why he called me son, but he did, for whatever reason… I wasn't his son… but he asks if I need work, an' of course I do, mister. So he says to me, he says…" He looked at Jeanette now. "He says, we got a couple little jobs we need done, an' we're willing to give you some hush money t' do 'em an' not tell anybody about it." He looked away again. "So he gave me his number, n' me n' Kitty talked it over, n' she said no ofcourse, but I took the job anyways, behind her back… I din't want her working when the baby came, that was my job, gettin' money fer her n' all."

He paused again, thinking, wetting his lips. "So I started working for these guys… they were doin' some really weird stuff, jus' importing some stuffed toys and stuff… bunnies n' bears." He chuckled at this. "Tha's what they were doing. Nothing shady, s'far as I could tell. They even let me come into work a li'l bit…" He paused, then indicated himself with a wry grin. "'Slong as I could still tell the diff'rence between the bunnies and the bears, 'cause the bunnies went one place n' the bears went some other place… two diff'rent toy sellers, they told me. An' they paid well. But, uh, Kitty was getting curious where all the money was coming from, an' I told her…" He sighed. "She was _not _happy," he said, his words slurring just a bit. "She tells me this big story 'bout drugs, an' Carmine Falcone, n' I said, I've never seen Falcone, so they must be jus' toys, Kitty… but she doesn't b'lieve me."

He shrugged. "So when I went into work th' nex'day, I asked 'em about Falcone… an' they asked where I'd heard about Falcone, n' I said my wife had said somethin' about it… an' they said, your wife that works in the coffee shop? 'N I said, yeah, that's her, that's Kitty. She's my wife, she's pregnant. - She was pregnant, then, about eight months. Case I didn't mention it before." He cleared his throat, licking his lips. "So th' nex'day, I come in, n' they say, we don't want you workin' for us anymore, Jack. N' if you say anything about this operation or Falcone, we'll kill yer wife, we'll kill Kitty, n' the baby, too."

He took a deep breath, frowning, and put his head in his hand, staring down at his lap. "N' I was so stupid… I said, you don't have Kitty. Kitty's safe at home. N' then this guy brings out Kitty, n' he's got 'er, and I was…" He turned his head, wetting his lips. "Out of it. So he says, you tell the cops, Jack, an' your wife n' baby die. …So I said to him, I said, it's too late… I've already told 'em, they know everything. - Course I hadn't, but they din't know that." He shook his head. "So the guy, he takes this… metal bat, an', while two guys hold me back, he takes this bat… an' he hits Kitty in the back of the head with it."

He put his knuckles to his scarred mouth, pausing before going on. "She wasn't moving… I called her name but she didn't move… I was a wreck… An' then one'a the guys… he takes this razor out, an' he goes over to me, an' he says… you gotta keep smilin', Jack. Now you know better. …He says to me…" He looked up at Jeanette. "WHY - SO - SERIOUS?"

He looked away then, wetting his lips. "Then he takes the razor, an' he slits open either side of my face, like this… an' he says, there, now you're smilin', Jack. And don't you ever, _ever _forget… what you learned here today." He swallowed, running a mindless finger along his scars. "Later that day, after I'd been t'the bar, I went back home… an' my house was on fire. There were fire crews an' all…" He put his head back in his hand. "And I knew, then n' there, that that was the end of my life as I knew it."

He was silent for a moment, then he looked up and inhaled sharply. "Well, I'mma head off to bed," he said. He tried to get up from the couch but failed, falling back into his sitting position, then, after a pause, tried to get up again and succeeded. He stood shakily, putting one hand on the back of the couch for support, then turned back to Jeanette. "Uh, I'll sleep on th' couch," he said. "You can have yer bed back… n' all." He paused, trying to catch his balance. "You never answered my question, by th'way," he reminded her. Then he shook his head. "But you don' hafto. You can wait 'til t'morrow… when I'm a li'l better equipped to listen." He chuckled, but it was hollow. Then he looked down at his fireman's garb, which he still wore. "Shit," he said drolly, "I'll never figure out how to get out of this."

Jeanette snorted. "Like hell you're sleeping on the couch. I wouldn't wish that bad of a hangover on _anybody_." She blinked a moment, surprised at her more casual speech. Maybe she'd subconsciously taken Napier's macho comment to heart. She stood up and put one of his arms around her shoulders. This was beginning to feel habitual, she thought and rolled her eyes. "Come on. I can last one more night on the couch." With that, she started half-carrying him to the bedroom.

Once there, she began to tug at the zippers on his uniform, trying to ignore how awkward this situation was (and failing quite miserably). They were half-melted, which explained why Napier'd been having trouble taking it off himself. She frowned. What kind of genius would design a uniform to be worn while fighting fires that had metal zippers on it? "Give me a hand, will you?" she asked after about a minute.

"Mm." He looked down at the somewhat blurry zippers, fumbling for one of them and yanking it down, an inch at a time, frowning at how ridiculously difficult it was. It seemed to be melted somewhat. Apparently the fire brigade in Gotham never expected to go into a burning building, themselves. Of course not, he thought - why should they, when they had Batman to do it for them? "Fuckin' zippers," he mumbled, yanking on one until it finally pulled down.

When the outfit was finally all unzipped, Napier slipped out of it, tossing it carelessly on the floor next to the bed. He glanced back at the bed, then up at Jeanette. "Y'know, I'd be perfectly happy sleepin' on th' couch," he offered again, indicating the bed. "I mean, I feel like I'm taking 'vantage of yer kindness, here… really." He wavered, then sat down on the bed and exhaled heavily. Then he looked back up at Jeanette. "Look, I din' mean what I said… about you bein' all macho. Yer not, yer… real pretty."

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then looked back up at her again, taking in her features. She really was a lovely individual, from what he knew, as he could not quite see her features clearly. Even so, she still had the distinct look of an attractive individual about her. "Imean, yer a fuckin' crackshot, I'll give you that, but… you can be real girly when you want to." He chuckled at this. "You don' hafta be macho t' be tough. You're plenny tough without bein'… macho." He waved a blasé hand in her general direction. "Shit, I don't know what I'm talking about," he said with a somewhat embarrassed smile. "I need some sleep."

He looked back up at Jeanette. "Las' chance fer me t' take the couch 'stead of the bed," he told her.

She shrugged and shook her head with a smile. When he was drunk, Napier was actually sort of...well, normal certainly wasn't the word. And sweet sure as hell wasn't right; she was horrified that the thought had actually crossed her mind. "Well, thank you, and good night to you, too," she said, then left the room. She didn't bother grabbing any pajamas on her way out. She had some serious stuff to think about.

The living room couch seemed as good a spot as any for some alone time, so she went there, carefully making sure to shut the bedroom door behind her. Once seated very comfortably on the couch, she pondered Napier's question. Why _didn't_ she have a boyfriend? Easy answer was that not many guys appreciated a girlfriend who killed people. It was a damn shame, she thought with a snicker.

But then she wondered if it wasn't something else. To be honest, she didn't really like people that much. Sure, she played around with a lot of guys, but none of them ever lasted more than a few hours before she kicked them to the curb. There was always that risk of actually getting close to someone. And God forbid that happen.

The buzzing of her cell phone vibrating on the coffee table interrupted her thoughts, and she frowned. Who would be calling her? She checked the caller ID, rolled her eyes, and flipped open the phone. "Hello, father."

Her dad's voice was so clear that she could imagine him standing next to her, in his usual high-quality, perfectly tailored suit. "What have you been doing with my money?" he asked, skipping a greeting in his usual curt way. She sighed, wishing that they didn't have to have this conversation.

"I've been staying at a rather nice hotel for a while," she explained, taking a seat again. She hoped this would be short. "And I bought some new tools a few days ago." She fondly eyed the case for her sniper rifle. It really was a beautiful weapon. A Remington M24, the top of the line in professional rifles nowadays. Great recharge time, easy to reload...

Her father interrupted her thoughts again. "I am seriously considering cutting you off, Jeanette. Your spending has skyrocketed in the last few months."

She scowled and replied, "Why don't you? I've got enough money..."

He cut her off in an irritated tone. "You _have_." She paused, confused. He clarified, "You _have_ enough money."

She sighed loudly and corrected herself, mimicking his tone. "I _have_ enough money as it is. I don't need you or your money any more." There was a minute of silence, but Jeanette knew he hadn't hung up; she could still hear his quiet breathing.

"You know that I don't approve of your lifestyle," he said. She was silent, which was enough of an answer. "If it was up to me, you'd be carted straight home and set to work for the family. But, unfortunately..."

"Unfortunately, I am quite old enough to decide what I want to do with my life by myself," Jeanette finished his sentence. "And you can't do anything about it."

"I really wish your mother and I had raised you better as a child..." he began, but she cut him off with uncharacteristic anger.

"Well, it's too damn bad, because you didn't." She looked down and saw that her knuckles were turning white around the cushion she'd been clenching.

"When are you going to start doing something with your life?" her father yelled, matching her anger with his own.

She snarled, "I'll do whatever I want, whenever I want, and you can just stay the fuck out of it!" With that, she shut her phone with a snap. She realized that she'd stood up, and quickly sat back down, shutting her eyes and breathing deeply. This was the first time she'd spoken to her father in months, and it hadn't gone well. Too bad, she thought, dropping the cell phone back onto the coffee table and turning to glare out the window. She hated him anyways.

Napier leaned in the doorframe, watching Jeanette as she angrily hung up her phone and turned to look out her window. He might not have had a clear head on his shoulders at the moment, but he had enough common sense to know when was a good time to speak and when was not. He watched her for a long, silent moment, taking in her features, her stance, the way she seemed so… sad. He had always seen her as more of a cocky, uptight individual, with perhaps a bit of anger lurking under the surface, but never as such a sympathetic character.

He absentmindedly brushed the scars on his face with his fingertips as he watched her. She reminded him somewhat of himself… hiding her pain from the world behind a knowing, sarcastic, even sometimes cruel, grin, killing people for the pleasure of it, for the way watching someone else's life leaving their body gave a short elation, as if, for just a few moments, that spike of adrenaline was filling the emptiness that he, or she, knew they held inside, but could not - or would not - isolate and admit to. He sighed quietly, dropping his hand from his face and folding his arms over his chest. And, just like him, she would never, ever let the world know the real reason behind that painted smile.

But, he concluded, they went about their counter-therapy in different ways. She was more meticulous, whereas he was more haphazard and capricious. It suited their personalities, he decided. She was calmer and more prone to put some thought into whatever she did. He… well, he was drunk.

After watching her for another few long moments, he finally stood straight and started towards the living-room. It was much easier to move now that he did not have on his heavy fireman's garb, but he still had to put out a hand for the edge of the couch before seating himself down on it and staring at her, propping his elbow against the armrest and resting his head in his hand, watching her. "Family troubles?" he asked. He glanced down at the couch, where he had left plenty of room for her, and patted the seat beside him, indicating for her to sit.

"Talk to me," he said. "I prob'ly won't remember it in the morning, anyways." He half-grinned at her. "I told you my story, it's only fair that you tell me yours," he justified himself. He wet his lips, watching her. "Talking about it will make you feel better," he said. "Trust me. It always works for me."

_Shit._ She nearly jumped out of her skin and her heart skipped a few beats when she heard the voice behind her. Had somebody broken in? Then she turned and realized who it was.

Great.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, hoping to abate the headache she knew was coming. Then she put on a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Not troubles, really," she explained. "Just a speed bump. My father's cutting off my funds. It shouldn't be a problem at all, since I have money saved up from my own work."

Then she looked suspiciously at the seat on the couch he'd indicated. Even drunk, Napier would never do this without some sort of reason. He wanted something, she was sure of it. What she didn't know was what he was after. She was silent for a minute, then grudgingly sat down on the far end of the couch. "Fair enough. What do you want to know?" She was pretty safe, she figured. Even if Napier remembered this conversation in the morning (which she severely doubted), nothing in her past could hurt her.

His eyes followed her as she warily took a seat on the couch as far away from him as she possibly could. He had half a mind to give her her space, but then realized how completely out-of-character that would be. He folded his hands together and leaned forward towards her, grinning. His dark eyes searched hers for a long moment before he said in a darkly amused, almost sing-song tone, "You - don't - _trust_ - me." His grin widened a bit, and he quickly wet his lips. "_Do_ you?"

He leaned back, propping one elbow on the back of the couch, and stared at her, grinning mischievously. "Well, we'll just hafta put an end t' that, if we're gunna be working t'gether." he said. He looked her up and down once, then his tongue flashed out again, wetting his lips. "I told you… all about myself." he told her, "and you've told me…" He looked away from her, his mouth moving but no sound coming out, almost as if he were thinking out loud, then he turned back to her. "Nothing," he concluded.

His eyes strayed again and he fidgeted slightly, moving his head vaguely from side to side, as if considering what to ask her. "I could ask you… _anything_," he said. He paused, his mouth hanging slightly open, his gaze somewhere to the left of her. He licked his lips and started fidgeting again, then looked back at her. He stared at her for a moment, then leaned forward towards her again, folding his hands in front of him and grinning at her.

"Let's start with your name," he said. "And then we can move on from there."

It seemed that Napier was feeling better. Or his drinking buzz had been shoved aside because he was completely in his element. Jeanette was leaning more towards the second option, which meant that he'd be feeling this later. She felt savagely happy, but replied in a forced light tone with the same smile. "I tend not to trust anyone who's been in jail." She paused, considering him. "Or wears clown makeup to terrorize people."

"As for my _name_," she finally answered, "it's Jeanette Clarissa Rossini." _That_ wasn't sensitive information, either. She'd come up with enough aliases and had enough varied forms of identification to last a lifetime. If she needed to disappear from Mr. Napier, she could be gone in five minutes. She settled into her seat more comfortably and glanced out the window for a second. A night run sounded really nice right now. Sure, it might be dangerous, but all the better if some idiotic rapist thought he could get the better of her. She did need some stress relief, after all.

Napier opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, his eyes straying, and then closed his mouth again, swallowing. "Ouch," he finally said in a low monotone, inclining his head. Then his eyes flicked back to her face. "Clown makeup?" he asked. "You hit below the belt… _Jeanette Clarissa Rossini_." He grinned at this, savouring her name. "You see? That was easy." He licked his lips, watching her expression, then looked away again. "_Too_ easy," he said, mostly to himself, but loud enough for her to hear.

He leaned back, resting his elbow on the back of the couch, and, putting his chin in his hand, pondered his next question. "Jeanette _Clarissa_ Rossini." he mumbled to himself. "Jeanette _Clarissa_. Well, then." He blinked slowly, his eyes seeming to roll back in his head, then licked his lips again, staring at the wall. "As long as it's Jeanette _Clarissa_ Rossini." he muttered. "Hm, mm." He let out his breath in a long sigh, then, swallowing and wetting his lips, he looked back at her.

"Next question," he said. "Why don't you tell me a little about yourself? Like I told you about myself." He leaned forward towards her again, folding his hands in front of him, and slid a little towards her on the couch. "Mm-hm," he said, resting his arm on the back of the couch and leaning forward towards her. "Let's hear a little about… _Jeanette Clarissa Rossini_."

It was sort of funny how preoccupied Napier was with her name. For someone who didn't seem to appreciate his own much...She shook her head and avoided his hurt gaze. Yes, she'd called it clown makeup. That's what it was, right? No use inching around the subject. And if she offended him he'd deal with it.

She crossed her arms.

She looked up sharply as he scooted closer, but she didn't move. As long as he didn't touch her, he'd be just fine. "Me? _Sono adulato_." She reverted back to her native tongue for only the two words, then switched to English. Italian gave her a headache after not speaking it for so long. "I grew up in Italy with my parents, who are both still alive..." She paused, not sure what to say. She hadn't talked about her childhood with...well, anyone, really. "They really pushed me into becoming a bodyguard, since my dad's one of the big players in the, er, crime scene over there." She shrugged. "So I learned how to use a gun pretty early on, went to college, and left home. And I've just been roaming around ever since." She opened her arms and shrugged as if to say, "ta-da!" "That's it."

Well, that _was_ it, basically. If he wanted to know about her family, or how she'd been trained, or any of the specifics, he'd have to ask. She sure as hell wasn't going to make this easy.

"_Sono adulato?_" Napier repeated, butchering the language. He grinned. "_Molto bene_," he replied, the only Italian he knew. He had picked it up one day when he had passed an electronics store that had Life is Beautiful playing on every screen in its windows. _Molto bene!_ the man in the movie had cried. Napier had stood mesmerized by the language, then proceeded to go inside and rob the owner blind. Well, it had been an interesting experience, and now he got to use his gained knowledge from it. Of course, he had no idea what the words meant, but he hoped it was something sensible. If not… he really did not have much to lose at this point.

His eyes searched the ceiling in an arch, almost as if he might find his next question up in her rafters. He wet his lips, then swallowed, thinking. There were so many possible things he could ask her about, and yet none were coming to mind. That was no surprise, considering… but he was still a bit disappointed at his total lack of creativity.

He blamed her. And her mini-bar.

He moved himself another inch closer to her on the couch, looking back at her with puckish interest, then leaned forward again towards her. "Well, you must've taken some karate," he said with a wry grin, "'cause your body is kickin'." He giggled to himself, turning away from her and putting his forehead in his hand. Then, taking a deep breath and letting it out in a quick huff, he turned back to her, "Okay, no, but in all seriousness…" He stopped again, grinning, then started laughing again. He shook his head, burying his face in the crook of his arm.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he said, wiping his eyes with the palms of his hands. Then, sniffing and clearing his throat, he looked up at her and licked his lips. "Why don't you tell me a little about your training?" he asked slowly. "About how you became… a _bodyguard_."

She waited patiently and rolled her eyes at his outburst. _Bad joke. BAD joke._ She shook her head and hid a grin nonetheless. "The training was hard. You know, sleeping outside, having to get your own food, meditating under waterfalls..." She paused and smiled, trying to not laugh. "Very _zen_."

She couldn't help it. She started laughing, and couldn't stop for another few minutes. Then she took a deep breath and curled her legs up underneath her. "No, I'm sorry. It was just a lot of self-defense, hand-to-hand combat, and weapons training, really." She shook her head, still half-laughing. "The family has a guy back home who teaches future bodyguards, so my parents stuck me in a class with him."

Memories of her childhood were flooding in now. She remembered clearly how beautiful Italy was, and wished that she could go back. Well, she would, if it wasn't for her family. If she put one foot in the country now, her father would probably send out a hit team. She sighed. It seemed she was stuck in Gotham for a while. Not that it was necessarily a bad thing, especially if this partnership with Napier worked out.

She finally snapped back to reality, and added, "Obviously, I didn't go for the bodyguard position." She shrugged. "It's just not interesting."

"The _family_, huh?" He grinned at her. "You ever _give someone an offer they can't refuse?_" He rested his cheek in his hand, watching her. She was giving him free reign now, and he could ask any question he wanted - within reason, of course. Wouldn't want to overstep her boundaries. He almost laughed out loud at that. Like he had any regard for others' comfort. He wore a clown makeup and carried explosives and large guns, for god's sakes. Respecting others' comfort was not very high on Jack Napier's list.

He looked away from her, off into space somewhere, thinking of his next question. Anything in the world… anything at all. He ran his fingers distractedly over the scars on his face, thinking. She probably had one of the most, if not the most, uneventful life story of anyone he had ever met. His had been fraught with tragedy and intrigue, and he had spilled his guts to her on every candid detail, though whether the most recent story he had spun was true or not, he was not about to tell her. As far as she was concerned, that was the only truth. That… or any of the other stories he had told her beforehand.

If he had to have a future, Napier thought, he would like for it to be multiple-choice.

He licked his lips, glancing over at her again. She seemed to be more at ease now than before, when they had started, and that was good. She was getting more comfortable around him. Of course, that was probably because he was pretty intoxicated at the moment, and therefore could be trusted - he suddenly wondered how that logic worked, then decided to drop his theory, because it did not make sense and it was starting to make his already-swimming head hurt - but either way, she was beginning to open up more to him.

"Is that really all there is to it?" he asked finally. "Is that really all there is to _Jeanette - Clarissa - Rossini_?" He inspected the nails of one hand, then put his cheek back in the hand of the arm that was resting on the back of the couch and looked at her again. "I told you _everything_," he stretched out the word dramatically, "about myself… all my ups, downs… successes, failures…" His eyes strayed as he thought about this, his mouth hanging slightly open. "More failures than successes, granted…" he added.

He grinned at her, fidgeting slightly, then again moved himself closer to her on the couch. He leaned forwards towards her, folding his hands together, then said in a lower voice, "I don't think you're telling me everything."

She shrugged, smile still present, and decided to address the issue of the phone call. "My father and I really hate each other, as you probably heard. My mother's the same way. I'm an only child, and they were convinced that I was useless when I was younger. Something about males being the only worthwhile heirs to trillion-dollar fortunes." She sighed, wishing (too late) that she hadn't mentioned it. This subject _did_ make her uncomfortable. She plowed on. "I worked hard, I really did, but he didn't have time for silly _girls_." She steamed up again at the thought, and her tone turned angry. "That's why I left home."

Then she just started ticking things off. "I was very scared of heights when I was little, I almost drowned once, I love dark chocolate..." She paused, and grinned. "Oh, and I can hit the center of a bottle cap from two hundred yards." With that, she shrugged.

"Mm-hm," he said casually, listening to her story. Somewhere around her outburst about working hard but still not being appreciated by her parents, he stopped listening to her words and just started watching her lips move. He nodded slowly as she spoke, staring avidly at her, licking his lips. She was totally at ease; nothing could phase her. She was nonchalant, casual, relaxed… and totally turning him on.

He watched her until she finished speaking, his eyes dwelling hungrily on her face as he stared at her, his chin resting in his palm, his elbow resting on the back of the couch. She did not seem to care if he moved any closer to her - she had reacted the first time, but every time after that, she had acted as if nothing had happened. He swallowed, wetting his lips again, staring at her. "That's…" he tried to return to casual conversation again, but found he could not. His mouth hung open, in the middle of forming a word, then he snapped it shut and lunged for her.

Napier pinned Jeanette back against the cushions of the couch, kissing her full on the mouth, perhaps missing a bit in his hurry. He breathed heavily, leaning down to her ear, and then spoke heatedly into it, "You can't say no, Jeanette, we're too much alike…" He tried to scramble with her, but she was a tough one to convince. "Don't fight me, _Jeanette Rossini_," he said, a little gruffer. "You want to just as much as I do, and you know it!"

He was totally out of control. He had never been like this before. But he was not thinking about the repercussions now - at the moment, all he could think about was Jeanette, pinned underneath him on the couch, and how much he had missed female contact in all his years as a loner.

"Just admit it, Jeanette," he breathed in her ear, "you've been thinking about this as much as I have!" He grabbed one of her wrists, holding it down. "You want it just as much as I do - _you know you do!_"

_SHIT._ Jeanette's eyes widened when Napier came after her, pinning her down so that she couldn't move. She wrenched her arm, getting no result but a splitting pain in her bicep, and tried to move her legs, which of course were still tucked under her. She turned her face to the side, eyes tightly shut and teeth locked together, as his lips traced clumsily down her jawline. She'd never felt this helpless in her life, and it pissed the fuck out of her.

She jerked her head forward into his and shook it a moment later to clear the white spots in her vision. "Get the _fuck_ off of me!" she said in a venomous mutter, not quite willing to wake up the rest of the hotel. She bared her teeth like an animal and twisted furiously again, whipping her free hand against his face in a strike that resulted in a loud and satisfying _smack_. That was it, she decided in a moment of clear thought, she was going to carry a gun with her all the time now.

She hated to admit it, but she was a little worried. As much as she liked to deny it, he _was_ bigger than her, and could overpower her in a second. _Had_ overpowered her in a second. And she hadn't done a damn thing about it, just sat there like an idiot.

Napier fell back off of Jeanette, putting a hand first to his aching forehead, and then to his stinging cheek, breathing heavily. He stared at her, his mouth hanging slightly open, a blank look in his eyes, and then, as if only half aware of it, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He coughed slightly, surprised, and then shakily got up from the couch, catching his balance, and mumbled blurrily, "I hafto… I'm gunna…" He staggered out of the living-room, down the hallway to her bathroom and flicked on the light.

He stepped into the bathroom, but fell back against the wall when he felt a stabbing pain in one of his feet. He hissed in pain, sliding down to the floor, and pulled his foot up to see a piece of glass sticking out of the bottom of it, bleeding profusely. He reached out a hand, his fingers scrambling against the side of the toilet-bowl, and, catching his grip on the seat, he dragged himself forward, leaned over the side, and was sick. He leaned his elbows on the edges of the seat, burying his face in his hands, and breathed heavily, trying to catch his breath and lift his sudden bout of nausea.

His head was spinning… or maybe the room was spinning and his head was sitting still. He could not tell at this point. All he could feel was the stabbing pain in his foot, which was staining her bathroom floor with a burgundy smear and slapdash puddles, the dry, burning sensation in his chest, and his swimming head. How much had he drunk? He had been totally preoccupied with Jeanette and had not paid much attention, and now it was coming back to bite him. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glanced back at his bleeding foot, then, pulling it up again, he took hold of the shard of glass and yanked it out.

He held up the piece of bloody glass to the light, his fingers stained with his own blood, then dropped the shard to the floor with a jingling clatter, leaned over the toilet-bowl, and heaved again. He put his face in one hand, eyes closed, panting, then folded his arms across the seat, laying his head on them, trying to catch his breath. He was not going to apologize; that was not in his character. But he was not about to try to remedy it with a smile and a laugh. That would be a terrible thing to do. He was sure she was feeling just as upset - probably more; alright, definitely more - but he was not going to make the first move, of that he was damn sure.

He coughed and gagged again, but nothing came up. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand again, then sat back against the wall of her bathroom, tucking his knees up to his chest, resting his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands.

This torment could not go on. Either she was going to throw him out - likely - or she was going to forgive him his horrid behaviour and keep him on as a partner. Though he did not see that she would. Thus far, he had proved himself as nothing more than a useless, sexually starved drunk.

Which, he supposed, was what he had always been. He had just been too much of a coward to admit it.

She sat in absolute silence for a minute, head cradled in her hands and shoulders shaking a bit. She hadn't been able to do _anything_. If he hadn't left...She shuddered and tried to calm her breathing. She could hear Napier moving around in another room, and shook her head slowly. Why was this so different than other guys she'd dated? Some of them had been _real_ animals, the freaks whose minds were only on one thing. In all honestly, things like this had happened before. Maybe not so suddenly or unexpectedly, but she'd certainly been pinned down on a couch before.

What the hell was she supposed to do now? She slowly dragged herself to her feet and walked down the hallway to stop just outside the bathroom. She paused and just breathed for a minute with her eyes closed, and kept them shut when she started talking. "I'm...I'm going to a new place tomorrow. Staying here is starting to look suspicious, and it's a bit out of my budget right now." Her voice was shaky; she steeled her nerves and went on. "I'll leave the address of the apartment on the kitchen table."

Now came the hard part. She took a deep breath. "You can come if you want to, or not. It's your choice. Just...if you do, no more drinking." Her voice hardened for the last part, then she slipped back out to the kitchen. There wasn't a chance in hell that she'd be able to sleep. She was already wearing shorts and a tank top, so why not go run for a few hours? She grabbed a room key, then left. The door shut quietly behind her.

"Jeanette," Napier said, raising his head from his arms and looking over in her direction. He pulled himself to his feet on the wall, then, making sure to avoid stepping on any more glass, he made his way to the hallway, moving himself along the wall, hand-over-hand, keeping his balance. "Jeanette," he repeated, louder this time, stumbling into the living-room and catching himself on the back of the couch. But she was already gone. He stared at the door, trying to catch his breath, wetting his lips, then glanced back towards the bathroom. Then his eyes returned to the door.

"She's not coming back," he mumbled to himself, in a tone more of surprise than of admittance, shaking his head but not wanting to believe it. "She's not… she won't come back, not ever, she's gone, she's… And it's all my fault." He stared at the door for another long moment, then looked down at his feet, where his little row of empty liquor bottles still sat lined up behind the couch. "She's not fucking - " he began in a rather more adamant voice, picking up one of the bottles and inspecting it. Then, with a shout of anger, he threw the bottle against the floor of the adjoining kitchen, shattering it.

"She's not fucking coming back!" he shouted, picking up another one of the empty bottles. "Of course not, you fucking - " he smashed this one on the floor of the kitchen, too "stupid, stupid, fucking why'd you do it?!" He picked up a third empty bottle from behind the couch and smashed it on the kitchen floor as well. "AUGH!" he screamed in frustration. He grabbed the last bottle from behind the couch and, moving into the kitchen, smashed it against the kitchen counter. "STUPID UGLY MESSED-UP MOTHERFUCKER!" he screamed at himself.

He turned to her mini-bar, ripping it open, and pulled out the first bottles he saw, smashing the first one against the counter and the next one on the floor, then pulled out a row of them, lined them up, and, with the mostly-full red wine bottle she had left on one of the counters, he shattered them all with a strong club swing, then smashed the wine bottle against the edge of the counter. Then he stopped, panting, staring at his hands, which were all cut up and bloody, covered in red wine, and shaking. He put his hands to his head and leaned against one of the counters, sliding down into a sitting position at the bottom of it.

He tucked his knees up to his chest and rested his elbows against them, burying his face in his hands, then running his fingers fretfully through his off-green hair. He leaned his head back against the counter, closing his eyes, and her words returned to him: _I'm going to a new place tomorrow. Staying here is starting to look suspicious. _Well it would, wouldn't it, he thought, with someone like him around. That was the nicest way she could have possibly said that he was a freak and drew attention, and that she wanted nothing more to do with him. _You can come if you want to, or not. It's your choice. Just… if you do, no more drinking._

Of course. He could see what good had come of his drinking thus far. He had lost his dignity because of it, he had lost his clothes - though he suspected that, if she really were going away, she would relent and return them to him - he had lost the laptop and the fight to Batman earlier in the day… and, depending on which version of his story one chose to believe, he lost his wife and unborn child because of it as well. He rested his forehead in his palm, breathing slowly. What _was_ the real story? It all seemed so vague. There were so many ways it could have happened, but all he knew for sure was that there had been Kitty… and even that memory was starting to fade.

He looked up, his face blank, his mouth hanging slightly open. "Jeanette…" he said again, in the same voice he had used before. He reached up a hand to the counter to pull himself up, but his hand slipped and he fell back down into the sitting position. He gritted his teeth, turning away, leaning his forehead against a cabinet door, then, exhausted, his breathing slowed and he finally fell asleep.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

Jeanette intensely disliked sports. She hated organized competitions, playing on a team, relying on other people...she'd much rather have to rely on herself.

That's why she liked running so much.

She hit her perfect stride five minutes in. Her breath whooshed in and out, synced up with the thumping of her tennis shoe-clad feet on the concrete. Streetlights zipped by, as well as a few stragglers who were still out on the street. She ignored everything but the sound of her breathing and her heartbeat. She could even forget what had just happened back at the hotel.

Another thing she liked about running.

Her thoughts started drifting to possible new housing arrangements when she had gone about a mile. A nice high-rise apartment in one of Gotham's skyscrapers would be great. In fact, she'd picked out a few just in case something happened with the hotel location. All she had to do was give the landlord a call and a bribe, and she'd be golden. She sighed and resumed her quick breathing. Easy as pulling a trigger.

She passed over a huge stone bridge and realized that she was heading into the Narrows. She grimaced and changed her route to skirt the outsides of the slums. Even though she'd lived there for a while, she hated the Narrows. It was a disgusting area with no morals, no cops, and, above all, no luxuries.

The back alley that Crane had led the faction on to escape being seen by Officer Gordon led them to the outer skirts of the Narrows. Crane was not unfamiliar with the Narrows, but he had never been fond of its outer boundaries, that sat, hidden in shadow, right on the edge of the more haughty subdivision of Gotham city, where, not surprisingly, most of the money was. In fact, in amongst the grey office buildings, high-rise apartments, and underground crime rings, there were many posh, honest (or, at least, as honest as something in the city of Gotham could be) establishments; the only one Crane knew of, for sure, was a very expensive hotel. He had never stayed there, personally, but he had known some associates to prefer the luxury offered by the hotel. Ra's Al Ghul had stayed there, and it was only in having a meeting with him that Crane had ever been - or been allowed - inside.

But the hotel was not their concern. Their primary concern was, at the moment, to vanish. The Narrows seemed like a good place to disappear for a while, at least while the investigation into the mysterious demolition of Kitty Smith's house was still going on. Of course, come sunrise, they would be busy again, as he was sure the report of destruction would lure out the ever-curious and sadistic Joker, and that was exactly what he wanted. Napier had managed to disappear completely since the night of the gala, and it was driving Crane…

He chuckled. He had almost said 'mad'.

Crane stopped walking, pausing for a moment. "We'll find shelter somewhere around here, at least for the night," he said, making a visual sweep of the cityscape. "Perhaps our friend Flicker will be refreshed enough in the morning to be of further use. If not…" He cocked his head, pursing his lips in that odd habit of his. "Well, I can't really think of a use for someone too tired to do their job," he said slowly, articulating pointedly.

Crane turned and looked up to see Kitty staring at him. He stared right back at her for a long moment, then asked in a flat voice, "What, am I holding her wrong?"

Kitty seemed surprised, then shook her head and replied in a much calmer voice than Crane would have expected, "No, you're holding her right."

Crane paused. Neither one said a word for a moment, just staring awkwardly at one another. "...Good," Crane finally said, turning away from her. He adjusted Jeannie Rose in his arms, trying to make himself more comfortable, but could not help but feel painfully unwieldy no matter how he held the child. He was not, he concluded, made for holding children. Or having them, for that matter. Or being around them. But especially for holding them.

Just then, a sound caught his attention. He looked up to see a jogger making her steady way down the street towards them. He stood perfectly still, watching her. He could tell, just by looking at her, that she was one of those so-called honest people with money that he had mostly only heard about. The only one he had ever had any real contact with was the eccentric Bruce Wayne, but, just from his dealings with the millionaire with the easy, stupid smile, he knew that those were the kinds of people who meant trouble, especially for organizations like his. Those were the kinds of people who watched the news, who listened to Harvey Dent's broadcasts and probably wore "I believe in Harvey Dent" pins at election time - and thus, those were the kind of people who posed the biggest threat to him.

He considered ducking into some side alley and avoiding her altogether, but she was too close, and there were too many of them to quickly duck into cover. He watched her jogging towards them for another moment, then glanced back at Goodhart, and their eyes locked. "That jogger looks lost," he said slowly. "Perhaps you should assist her."

Goodhart's head jerked up. He'd just been imagining ways to knock off this Flicker girl - she was unconscious and completely helpless in his arms, so wasn't now the best time to do it? - when Crane rudely interrupted his thoughts. He sighed and looked across the street. The jogger was just some woman, still pretty young. She didn't look threatening at all, so why was Crane being so paranoid? He shrugged and nodded anyways.

Just then Flicker snorted and tried to turn over in her sleep, seemingly thinking she was lying down. One edge of Goodhart's mouth twisted in a snarl, and he dropped her none too gently for a moment against a wall. How the hell was he supposed to carry two women and watch Kitty, too?! Nonetheless, he had to do what Crane said. He began walking over to the other side of the street at an angle that would intercept the jogger.

Jeanette saw the big oaf the second he started for her, and slowed her pace deliberately. Great. Two attempted rapes in one night. She eyed the guy, who looked like he was around his late forties or early fifties, and finally just stopped.

When he walked cautiously up to her, she smiled winningly and said, "Hey. Something wrong?" She propped one hand on her hip and leaned slightly to the left to peer behind him. Another man, two women (one of whom was unconscious), and a child were waiting in the alley across the street. She raised her eyebrows. Man, what a sicko. Seemed her innocence tactic wasn't going to work. "Listen, I'm not going to tell anybody about your little...deal." She nodded to the group behind him. "Just leave me alone, and I'll..."

Goodhart was sick of hearing this lady talk, so he threw a punch. It caught her on her left eye and sent her reeling backwards. "What the hell?!" Jeanette exclaimed angrily, grabbing her face with one hand. "You bastard!"

He kept coming forwards. She ducked under his lumbering, outstretched arms and rammed her shoulder and elbow into his chest. With a muffled _oof_ he stumbled a bit, but managed to get a grip on her arms. "Get _off_!" she shrieked for the second time that night.

Flicker sat up slowly, her nice nap disrupted by a woman shouting. She blinked a few times, yawned, stretched, and finally stood up. She felt _much_ better; her vision was crystal clear again, and her movement was as sharp as ever. Which, in retrospect, wasn't saying much. Then she noticed Goodhart and some chick duking it out in the street. She grinned and nudged Crane's shoulder. "Bit of a spazz, ain't he?"

She crossed her arms and followed the two with her eyes as if she were watching a football game. It was a pretty good matchup, she thought. Goodhart was huge, but this new girl was _fast_. Plus, it seemed like she had a few tricks up her sleeve; she stomped on the man's foot, kicked his shins, and Flick could even swear she tried to bite him once.

Unfortunately, she couldn't get away from him. "Damnit..." she swore, twisting her arms in a last-ditch effort to loosen his grip. Goodhart scowled at her, then decided he'd had enough fighting. He clapped one huge palm across the back of her head and, sure enough, she slumped over immediately, unconscious.

He half-dragged, half-carried the woman back to Crane, and shrugged. "What do you want to do with her?"

Crane shifted Jeannie Rose in his arms, finally conceding to balance her on his hip as he had seen Kitty do, and frowned at Goodhart. That was a good question. The unfortunate thing was, he had not thought that far ahead. But he was not about to show how unprepared he was for every situation they found themselves in, no matter how bizarre. He cleared his throat, glancing over at Flicker, and decided to take the high road and ignore her nudge and inane comment. At least she was awake. That meant Charles could carry the new woman and drag Kitty, and Flicker could tend to herself.

"Sling her over your shoulder," he told the large man slowly, making sure he understood, "and carry her. I already said we were going to find shelter - _shel-ter_." He removed one hand from Jeannie Rose to trace a square roof over himself in the air, then went back to holding the girl's head against his shoulder. "We're just going to bring our new friend with us. Maybe she can tell us a bit about herself once we're there…" He eyed Jeanette, who seemed to be pretty much out cold. "…If you haven't _killed_ her," he added with a touch of bitter disdain.

He turned away, looking at Flicker. "We're going to stay here tonight," he gave her a quick rundown. "You need rest. I don't want you passing out again." Then, in case he had sounded too concerned for her well-being, he added for good measure, "If you don't, and you pass out again, we're going to leave you for the Joker to do as he pleases with you. He's not as forgiving as I am." He looked her up and down. "And he's _bigger_, too." he added. "_Much_… bigger."

With one last look at her, he turned away from her and started walking towards the shadier part of the Narrows. If Falcone's old hideout was still around here, he was sure they would find themselves welcome… providing anyone still remained there. If it was deserted, all the better. At least he would not have to use his fear toxin then.

Kitty held tightly to a corner of her dress, watching him, biting her lip. She had not moved from her spot when Goodhart had gone and collected the jogger like Crane had ordered. She had kept her eyes on Crane, who still held her daughter. Strangely enough, she had not been as concerned when Goodhart had held her daughter, because she knew that the man was a father, himself, and so knew not only how to hold children, but also that her little girl was not to be harmed. He had already made that clear enough. But Crane, she could not be so sure about. He was a twisted, moral-less individual with a black heart and a dark sense of humour. For all she knew, he might think it was funny to see the little girl meet a horrible end.

But, then again, he had taken her out of the line of fire, at risk to his own life, when she had been too shocked to move out of harm's way, herself. He needed her, she told herself, he needed her for some kind of twisted plan that he was putting together. So then why did he not send Goodhart back to get her, or Flicker? Why had he gone back, himself, putting his own life in danger, to save hers? And then, after that, had protected her?

The thought was pushed from her head as she felt her arm roughly grabbed again and she was dragged along behind the rest of the procession. No, she decided, this was all just part of Crane's plan. And besides, if he wanted to kill the child, he would not have had any qualms with killing Kitty, herself. After all, one was not any good without the other… right?

…Right?

Flick frowned at the arrangements. "Aww, I wanted the kid..." she muttered, stuffing her hands in her pockets and scuffing the ground with the toe of her shoe. Ah, well, maybe she'd get a chance to grab her once they got...wherever Crane'd said they were going. She hadn't been listening very closely. She recovered quickly enough and hopped on ahead of the group once more, pausing as she passed Crane.

"Pass out?" She rolled her eyes and pursed her lips. "I just took a nap. _Duh._" Then she gently tugged a lock of little Jeannie Rose's hair and skipped away again.

She grinned as she walked with a bounce in her step. "Be_sides_, I could take on the big, bad Joker _any_ day," she said confidently, cracking her knuckles. "Size ain't everything; you saw how Mr. Lughead over here almost got beat by Miss Speedy Gonzales." She jerked her thumb at the unconscious woman, and smiled innocently at Goodhart.

He could do nothing more than stare menacingly at the uppity girl and wish that she'd get struck by a comet or something. _She'll get hers,_ he tried to convince himself. It was hard; even Crane didn't seem ruffled by her quirks.

Kitty sat in a far corner of the abandoned hideaway, the folds of her dress tucked securely around her knees so that Crane would not try any of his questionable antics. She rubbed one flat shoe across the ground in front of her quietly, her hands on her knees, thinking. She was worried sick about her daughter, even though no one had hurt her yet, and no one seemed to be in the mindset to do so. She could never be sure with crazy people, though; they had a tendency to do things just for the sake of doing them, with no rhyme or reason. Like what they did to that poor jogger… she glanced over to the side, where Jeanette was still out cold, bit her lip, and went back to staring at her knees.

If she just kept quiet and cooperated like she had been doing all along, then they would have no reason to use force against her. That jogger had tried to fight back, and had been taken out by force. If Kitty did as she was told, she saw no reason why they would turn a harmful finger on her.

But then there was Crane. Crane seemed to take immeasurable pleasure in pushing her past the boundaries of propriety for sport, or entertainment, or perhaps because something in his twisted mind triggered him into doing it. Funny, she thought, that he did not try it on Flicker; he only did it to _her_. Probably because she was so shy, she reasoned. If she was as outgoing as Flicker, he might leave her alone, too.

She looked up when she heard his footsteps. He had insisted they all stay together, and, since it was a large space, it had not proven to be a problem to fit all of them into one enclosure. He still held her daughter in his arms, and, oddly, he seemed less awkward with the little girl, now that he had been carrying her for several hours. Thankfully, Jeannie Rose had managed to sleep through the entire ordeal, which seemed, to Kitty, like some kind of miracle - unless these goons had given her some kind of sleeping medicine before they had started out. Suddenly she started to worry. Jeannie Rose had never shown any sign of allergies, but it was possible that sleeping draught would make her ill. What if she was sick?

Kitty frowned as Crane set Jeannie Rose down in one of the sofa-like chairs that were scattered randomly around the room. It was a nice enough room, large, probably King-plus-sized - perhaps Falcone, himself had stayed here at some point - but she still did not like the thought of her daughter sleeping in the same chair as a gangster. She tucked her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her knees, tucking her dress tightly around her slender form so that Crane would have no point of entry, and glared at him as he crossed the room and knelt next to her.

"Kitty," he said, his voice slow. He smiled, amused by the way her name rolled off his tongue, and he fingered a lock of her mousy hair as he continued airily, "Kitty, Kitty, Kitty." He sighed, dropping the lock of hair, and stared at her, his eyes locking with hers. "You know," he said in a low voice, turning his head to look at her from a different angle, "you're probably lucky you don't remember Jack Napier. I can't say I consider myself a lucky one… for remembering him." He watched her face, then started to trace the seam of the shoulder of her dress with his fingers, finally gently running his fingertips over her soft throat and then tracing the line of her jaw, studying her.

Kitty froze. He was doing it again - that thing he did. Every time he touched her, it turned her blood to ice, and he knew it. That was why he did it, she was sure. "He wasn't… _always_… that way," Kitty said, her voice shaky and uncertain. "I'm sure he… was… a good person - "

"Oh, I'm _sure_," said Crane with a hint of sarcasm, nodding in mock agreement. "I'm _sure_ of it." He raised his eyebrows, his translucid eyes straying, took a breath, and then opened his mouth to speak, paused, and said in a little above a whisper, "But sometimes it isn't… the _thought_… that counts." He looked back at her. "Sometimes… people are _beyond_ remembering… who they once were." He paused here, watching her face. "Sometimes it's better for some people… to just_ move on_."

He stared at her for a long moment, then gently put his hand to her face and ran his fingers softly down her cheek. She cringed, turning away, frowning. He gently took her chin in his hand and turned her face back towards him. She stared at him, stubborn but afraid. He stared right back at her, then leaned in towards her. Her eyebrows shot up in shock; for a moment, she thought the doctor was going to try to kiss her. But he leaned over to her ear, took a breath, and then whispered, articulating, "You're not the only one who wishes they could forget their past, Kitty."

He leaned back away from her, and for a moment, they just stared at each other. Then he reached up, pushed some of her feathery bangs from her eyes, and traced the line of her jaw again. She stared at him, not sure whether to be afraid or surprised, until his eyes locked with hers again. There was nothing human behind that stare. Instantly she knew that of those two options, she should definitely be afraid. She should be _very_ afraid. But she shook her head.

"No," she said quietly. "But I'm the only one who wishes I could _remember_ it."

Crane stared at her for a long moment, then put his hand over hers, taking her wrist and guiding her hand back to her torso, where he laid it gently on her abdomen, his own hand over it. She looked down at his hand, then up at his face, and then, after a moment, over at Jeannie Rose, asleep in the chair. Then her gaze returned to his face. He smiled bitterly at her. "How could you _forget?_" he asked.

Another night. Another long, boring night, full of whittling away at time by humming show tunes. Flick shook her head in agitation. That explosion earlier had set off her firebug tendencies, and she was playing with her lighter. Too bad Crane had ordered her not to burn any of the cute little chairs in this place; they looked like they would go up in some nice, easy flames.

Also too bad that he'd told her to get some sleep. She sat stubbornly in a corner, glaring at the tiny flame flickering into existence and then winking out when she shut the lid of the lighter. She wasn't _tired_. In fact, adrenaline was buzzing around her veins like a drug. The last thing she wanted to do right now was sit _still_, damnit! Her leg jumped unexpectedly, and she decided that that was it. She had to do _something._

Fortunately, she noticed that Crane had just put down the girl. Flicker grinned and rose into a crouch. She'd just hold the girl for a little while. Talk to her, even if she was still asleep. You never knew; she'd heard somewhere that kids could hear you when you talked to them, even if they were sleeping. She got to her feet and quietly padded over to the chair, and carefully lifted the sleeping girl out of it, settling Jeannie onto her hip and tucking one hand behind her head.

"God, you _are_ a cutie, aren't you?" Flick crooned, snuggling her face into the girl's hair. Somehow, even though she'd gone without a shower for at least a day, her hair was still soft and perfect. Flicker sighed and leaned the girl's head onto her shoulder, then ruffled her own bright blonde hair. Thank God she kept it short. Otherwise it might look sort of like...

She snorted and looked over at Crane.

Then she put her hand back behind Jeannie's head and tucked it under her chin. She wished she had a kid, just so that she could hold her (or him, she supposed, even though little boys were usually annoying). It was so calming. She bounced the girl up and down a tiny bit, then asked, "So you never knew your daddy, huh?" She paused, considering a dark stain on one of the walls. "Must've been hard. I knew my daddy, and he was a great person." She sighed. "My mom, too. Your mom seems pretty cool. Just a bit spineless, y'know?"

Kitty pulled her hand out from under Crane's cold one, frowning at him, afraid and censorious, and then looked back to where Jeannie Rose had been, only to find that her daughter had been moved. She cried out in distress, and a look of terror came over her face when she looked up and saw that Flicker held the child. Crane glanced over his shoulder as well to see what all the commotion was about, and arched an eyebrow when he saw Flicker holding Jeannie Rose. Kitty tried to get to her feet, but Crane pushed her back into a sitting position against the wall. "You don't move," he told her flatly.

"But Jeannie Rose…!" Kitty exclaimed, indicating Flicker.

"_Don't… move_." Crane repeated dangerously. "She's not going to hurt your daughter. She's only curious."

"She's an arsonist!" Kitty exclaimed. "She's crazy! _You're_ crazy! - You're_ all _crazy!"

"Now, that's not very nice, Kitty," Crane said in a mock hurt tone.

"Make her put my daughter down," Kitty said, holding her voice steady. "Make her put Jeannie Rose down before something happens."

Crane glanced over his shoulder at Flicker again, then looked back at Kitty. "What could _possibly _happen?" he asked, trying her. "What do you think she would possibly do to your daughter? She doesn't want to hurt her…"

"Like you wanted to help _her?_" Kitty asked a bit more forcefully, pointing to Jeanette, who was still out cold.

Crane glanced over at Jeanette and sighed. Kitty took the opportunity to try to get up again, but Crane pushed her back against the wall again, pinning her shoulders with his hands. "Don't - _fight_ me, Kitty," he said in a low, dangerous voice. "I don't want to have to hurt you. Or your daughter."

"Don't you _dare_ hurt my daughter," Kitty said, glaring at him, more angry than afraid now.

Crane raised his eyebrows, surprised. He had never seen Kitty be so forward. But then he grinned. It was amusing to see such a small, timid woman pretending to be so aggressive. "Or else, _what_, Kitty?" he asked, articulating, grinning cruelly at her, mocking her. "What will you do?"

Kitty glared at him, and then her expression darkened and, gritting her teeth, she pulled back one of her feet and drove it into his crotch.

Crane instantly let go of her shoulders, falling onto all fours, crystalline eyes wide with shock and agony, mouth hanging open, panting painfully, before pressing his knees together and putting a consoling hand to the offended area, clenching his other fist, and gritting his teeth, letting out a strangled cry of anguish. Kitty scrambled to her feet and quickly crossed over to Flicker, taking hold of Jeannie Rose's waist. "Please, please, let me have her," she pleaded. "I don't want anything to happen to her, please…"

Crane looked up from his spot on the floor, his eyes red and watering, opened his mouth, but, unable to get a word out, he put his head on the floor, cringing into a smaller heap of pain. Kitty let go of her daughter, wringing her hands nervously. She was not going to pull Jeannie Rose away; what if she hurt her in the transaction? She just watched apprehensively as Flicker held her daughter. "Please… don't drop her," she pleaded. She bit her lip, glancing back over her shoulder at Crane, who was still holding his groin in agony, head on the floor, rocking slightly. For some reason, this made her feel a little better about the whole situation. She looked back at Flicker one last time, and took a step back. Now that she looked at her, she could see that Flicker was not holding Jeannie Rose in a threatening manner at all; in fact, she seemed to be holding her as if Jeannie Rose were her own child.

Kitty was surprised. She had never expected something like that from an arsonist who worked for someone like Jonathan Crane. But, then again, the world was full of surprises.

Crane put a hand on the wall, biting his lip, and slowly dragged himself to his feet, his knees still turned in, his legs shaking. His hair was completely dishevelled, his eyes were red, and his mouth hung open, panting. He swallowed, trying to collect some semblance of dignity, holding his feet steady with the wall. He swallowed, trying to regain his voice. "I'm - " he began, but his voice was high and hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again, "I'm going to… see if I can… find some supplies." He nodded to himself, cocking his head slightly in his odd habit, and then, steadying himself, started to limp for the doors of the room.

Kitty watched his painful crossing until he finally reached the doors and let himself out, the doors closing with a click behind him. Then she turned back to Flicker. She paused a moment, and then, unable to hold it back any longer, she smiled at Flicker and giggled. "I can't believe I actually did that," she admitted in a shocked, but not unsatisfied, whisper.

Flicker, who was snickering in sadistic laughter herself, grinned right back. "Me neither," she admitted, wiping the tears away from her eyes and then patting Kitty on the shoulder, "but thank God you did. That little cockroach is such a creeper when he wants to be."

She paused to look at Kitty. The woman was walking straighter now, with a little more bounce in her step. Flick could see that she'd had a bit of confidence, maybe even spunk, before she'd gotten involved in all this, maybe before she'd lost her memory. Pity was too far of a stretch for Flick, but she swore she felt some sort of compassion for Kitty.

So she looked toward the door (where Goodhart sat, clearly confused about Crane's quick exit) and held out the little girl to her mother. "I don't suppose I'd get in much trouble for letting you _hold_ her, right?" she said with a smile. The woman wouldn't be able to run away or anything, with Goodhart standing in the door, so what harm could it do? Then her face straightened out and she frowned. "I wasn't gonna drop her," she said seriously.

Her head turned sharply when she heard something move in the corner. "Seems like our friend's waking up..." she murmured, watching the jogger slowly push herself into a sitting position. "Too bad Dr. Crazy isn't here to interrogate his patient."

Jeanette didn't know where she was.

She instantly went into what her tutor had called "don't panic mode", slowing down her pulse and breathing before she even knew they had sped up. Then she sat up, which was very difficult for two reasons.

One, her head felt like it had been split open by a jackhammer. Pretty accurate, really, she figured, remembering the incident with the huge man who'd taken her out.

Two, her hands and feet were tied together with pieces of twine.

She stared at the bonds for a second, then inspected her surroundings. She was on the floor of what appeared to be...well, she wasn't quite sure what. It was run-down enough to be in the Narrows, though, so presumably not far from where she'd been picked up. She tried to work her hands out of her shackles for only a moment before giving up. She'd just have to wait and see what they wanted with her.

Kitty graciously took her daughter from Flicker, nodding and biting her lip as she adjusted the little girl on her hip. "I was worried at first," she admitted. "But I figured it out, after a little bit." She put a hand to Jeannie Rose's head, smoothing her soft curls. "I'm sorry I said you would drop her," Kitty said shyly. "I just… don't want anything to happen to Jeannie Rose." She nestled her cheek gently against her daughter's hair. "As you can imagine," she added.

There was something unusual about this girl… something almost _normal_, when she was not in the hyperactive arson mode Kitty had been so used to seeing her in. She glanced towards the doors, where Crane had still not reappeared, and then said to Flicker, "Don't let him hold her. If he decides to take her away again…" She bit her lip again. This was hard to say. "I trust you," she finally said. Perhaps it was a bad choice, but it was the best of the worst, which was the best Kitty was going to get in her current situation.

Then she looked over at Jeanette, who was sitting against the wall, wide awake, seeming a lot more calm than she, Kitty, had been when she had woken up in an unfamiliar setting - and she, Kitty, had not been bound. This woman was a wonder. Either that, or she was just as crazy as the rest of them. That was the last thing they needed, Kitty thought worriedly, holding her daughter close. Another crazy person in their team.

Speaking of crazy…

The doors opened again and Crane let himself back in, taking a deep, haughty breath as he closed the doors behind him and locked them, then turning, smoothing a lock of dark hair into place, and walking - still a bit stiffly - back into the room. He glanced over and saw Kitty holding Jeannie Rose. He stared at her for a long moment, considering saying something, but then thought better of it and turned away from her with a look of smug disdain, turning to face Jeanette, who had finally woken up. He grinned coldly at her, cocking his head. "Welcome back to the land of the living," he said.

He moved towards her, his movements becoming steadily more natural, until he stood before her. He started to crouch down beside her, but stopped, clenching his teeth, let out a strained breath, and decided that it would be better to stand. He straightened out his jacket, dusting off one of the shoulders, and stared down at Jeanette. He folded his arms, staring down at her. "You don't look like you're too familiar with this part of town," he said, a grin starting to split his features.

He glanced back over his shoulder at Kitty and Flicker, making sure no one was trying to move up on him while his back was turned, then turned back to Jeanette, crossing his legs. "I'm sorry that we had to use such… _extreme measures_," he said, his voice without any hint of actual sympathy. "But some of us are rather… _primitive_, and don't know how to treat a lady."

If she had not been so scared, Kitty would have laughed.

Crane moved closer to Jeanette, trying to kneel again, this time overcoming the twinge of pain to crouch down beside her and stare her in the face. "Perhaps you've heard of us," he said in a somewhat quieter voice. "If you listen to anything Harvey Dent has to say, then you'll probably know us as _those lunatics from Arkham_ and _that arsonist_." He grinned, shaking his head. "Those aren't actually our names," he said, amused. "And I think it would be best if we… got to know each other a little better." He indicated himself. "I am Doctor Crane," he said. "I used to run Arkham Asylum. But a smart girl like you probably already knew that."

He indicated Flicker next. "That's your arsonist," he said. "You can call her Flicker. We all do." Then he indicated Kitty. "We happened to pick up a stray along the way," he said. "This is Kitty… and she has no home. Or memory." He looked back to Jeanette with an amused, cruel chuckle. "She can get quite tiresome after a while," he told her in a low voice. "But she's so much fun to… _fuck_ with." Then he indicated Goodhart. "And our resident gorilla," he said with derision. He turned back to Jeanette. "Unfortunately, we didn't get the _smart_ one who knows sign language," he added. "We got a dumb one who actually _talks_."

He stared at her for another long moment, then reached out a hand and started gently toying with the end of her ponytail. His hand moved down to her jaw line, then her throat, and finally came to rest on her knee. He stared at his hand resting on her knee for a long moment, and then his light blue eyes flicked back to her face, dangerous. "And what's _your_ name?" he asked, articulating softly.

Flick kept looking at the jogger, but her surprise was given away when she raised her eyebrows. Kitty _trusted_ her? She had to be lying. Nobody trusted Flick, even if it was for something like starting a fire. She was so...untrustable, she decided. It was weird, too; she was part of the group that had kidnapped Kitty.

She shrugged and decided to think about it some other time.

Jeanette listened, almost smiling, as he talked about Dent's press conference. Of course she'd listened to it; she'd been in it. But she let him talk all the same. It gave her a chance to watch the others in the room, especially "the gorilla", as Crane called the giant man near the door. He was the one to look out for.

She flinched ever so slightly when Crane touched her, and wished that he'd just _get off_. When he refused to let go of her knee, though, she opted for some encouragement. She whipped out her hands and clumsily grabbed his, yanking it so that he fell forward and his face was next to hers.

"Don't touch, please," she muttered icily into his ear.

Then she processed what he'd said and glanced at the rather mousy woman before her. Kitty? Could this be _the_ Kitty? Napier's Kitty? Her eyes widened in surprise. Talk about coincidences.

Crane pulled back from her, his smug grin gone, replaced with a dark, scornful frown. He straightened his jacket, getting to his feet and dusting himself off, then smoothing out any wrinkles in the front of his jacket. He cleared his throat, jerking his head slightly, then took a deep, calming breath. Then he looked over at Goodhart, pursing his lips. "Our guest has obviously had a long day," he said coldly. "Make sure she sleeps soundly."

He stood with his hands folded behind his back, arching an eyebrow and averting his gaze as Goodhart went past him, and a slight, bitter grin turned up the side of his mouth as he heard Goodhart knock out the cocky jogger for a second time. She would be feeling that in the morning, Crane thought, if he had anything to say about it. He shifted his shoulders, poising himself quite eloquently, and then turned his attention to Kitty and Flicker. Kitty still held her child, but her newfound confidence seemed to have melted away, because she held the girl tightly, staring at Crane with pleading, scared eyes.

Her pitiful expression did nothing for Crane. He crossed to Kitty, looked her up and down, and then held out his arms for the little girl. Kitty shook her head and held tighter to Jeannie Rose, entwining her fingers in the little girl's hair. Crane sighed, dropping his arms. "Do you want to give her to me," he said slowly, "or do you want her to be _torn_ from your arms?" Kitty stared at him, then looked over at Goodhart, who had just finished knocking out the jogger for the second time, then looked back at Crane. She glanced over at Flicker piteously, but knew that she was helpless. Of course she could not trust Flicker. She was one of them… one of Crane's minions. Just because she seemed to care more about Jeannie Rose as a person than as a mean of leverage did not mean she was one of the good guys.

With a heavy heart, Kitty gently handed Jeannie Rose over to Crane. Crane took the little girl into his arms, holding her awkwardly, then looked up at Kitty again. He grinned maliciously at her scared, worried expression. "Oh, don't worry, Kitty," he said frigidly, his words biting with sarcasm. "She's going to be taken _very _good care of. Someone will watch over her _all… night… long._" He looked down at the little girl, taking in her features, and how oddly similar to Napier's they were, then turned away from Kitty and looked at Goodhart. He paused, then held out the little girl to the larger man. "Take care of her," he said sardonically, handing her off to him.

"No!" Kitty exclaimed, taking a step forward, but Crane turned back around, staring at her in antipathy. She stopped short, twisting her skirt in her fist, and stared at him, warded off by his crystal-blue eyes.

He stood still, watching her for a moment, then took a step towards her, folding his arms over his chest. She took a step back, and, looking back, found herself trapped against the bed. She looked up, staring at him in dread. Without looking away from Kitty, Crane addressed Flicker slowly, "Go with Goodhart and the girl, and find a room where you can get some sleep. You're going to need it for tomorrow. And take the jogger with you." He waited for a moment, then turned and looked at Flicker. He frowned. "What are you still doing here?" he asked, a bit sharply. "Didn't I tell you to go? Go!"

Crane's eyes followed the procession as Flicker, now once again carrying the child, and Goodhart, carrying the jogger, packed themselves up and, finally, left the room, closing the door behind them. He stared at the doors for a long, silent moment, contemplating. Kitty watched him, terrified. Neither one said a word for a long moment. Then, finally, collecting her courage, Kitty asked quietly, "W-what are you going to do to me?"

Crane paused, staring at the door, then turned, looked at her, and grinned.


	20. Chapter Nineteen

The sunlight streaming in through the window above the sink hit his eyelids, and his squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it out. The sunlight hurt his head… his head ached. "Mm," he moaned, frowning, putting a hand to his head, but when he tried to pull it away, his hair stuck to his hand, and it tugged painfully on his skull. "Ow," he griped in an unamused monotone, opening one eye to see what the problem was. He tried to unstick the hair from one hand with the other, but to no avail. His hair just stuck to the other hand as well. He finally had to surrender and yank his hands away from his face, pulling out a few strands of greenish hair with them.

He looked down at his hands, confused and piqued, opening and closing them a few times, and realized that not only were they covered in partially-healed scratches, but they were also strangely sticky. He brought his hands to his nose and smelled them, and quickly brought them away from his face, wrinkling his nose in surprised revulsion, when he realized how strongly they smelled of red wine. Well, that figured, he thought. He closed his eyes again, trying to fight back the pain in his throbbing head, his thick tongue, and reached up a hand to grab onto the counter and pull himself up.

"Kitty," he called, dragging himself to his feet with one hand over his eyes. He groaned again, leaning against the kitchen counter. "Kitty, I think I might've passed out in the…" He removed his hand from his face and froze, staring in disbelief at the wreckage that surrounded him. "…Kitchen," he finished faintly.

The floor of the kitchen was sticky and, in a few places, still wet. Broken bottles littered the floor like some kind of sadistic death-trap, their sharp glass edges sticking up menacingly everywhere one could think to walk. The kitchen reeked of various undiscernible kinds of alcoholic drinks; Napier was surprised he had not noticed it before, it was so pungent. The floor was stained all kinds of different strange colours, ranging from a kind of brown to more of an orange-yellow, and then the large, unmistakable stain of burgundy, where he guessed the wine that covered his hands had been spilled - or broken. "Somebody had a party," he mumbled to himself, gaping around at the debris in shock. "Or a _meltdown_."

He stared at the wreckage, then, remembering something, he lifted his foot to look at the underside. Sure enough, there was a long, infected-looking gash in the arch of his foot where he had stepped on a piece of broken glass from the mirror. He slowly let his foot back down, taking care not to step on any more broken glass, then stared in disbelief at the disarray. "Jeanette," he finally said, quietly, suddenly remembering. "She said she was going to… go to a new apartment today, and she'd leave…"

He looked down at the treacherous floor, trying to pick his way precariously around the broken bottles without stepping in any of the puddles of liquor. "She said she'd leave her address… on the kitchen table," he said, carefully stepping around the wreck of what had once been the wine bottle. He finally made it to the side of the kitchen with the table and, making sure there were no stray shards of broken glass for him to step on, he made his way to the table and looked down at it. There were a few papers on the table, but nothing that looked like it had been put there since Jeanette had left yesterday. "Maybe she wrote it on something," he said to himself, starting to sort haphazardly through the paperwork on the table. "Maybe… maybe she jotted it down on… one of these papers…"

He started sifting through the papers more frantically, turning each one over again and again, until he finally ripped each one into shreds and tossed them onto the kitchen floor with the broken bottles and dried-up liquor. He sat down heavily at the kitchen table, burying his face in his hands, breathing heavily, trying to seize hold of his emotions. He grabbed fistfuls of hair, clenching his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut, and then, unable to control himself any longer, he stood up from the table with an angry scream and upturned the table onto the floor, then picked up the chair and smashed it against the overturned table.

"FUCKING HELL!" he screamed at the top of his voice. "SHE FUCKING ABANDONED ME! I WAS… I was… I…" He panted, putting a hand to his chest, his heart rate spiking, and tried to calm himself, closing his eyes and staggering back a step, leaning against the wall of the kitchen. He put a hand to his forehead, trying to remedy his pounding head. "I… I _deserved_ it," he finally said, quietly. He opened his eyes and looked around at the wreckage of what had once been the kitchen, his breathing slowing. "I… deserved… it."

He looked back out at the debris, then slowly started to pick his way to the edge of the kitchen, making sure not to step on any splinters or shards of glass. He finally made it to the edge of the kitchen and stopped, staring back at the wreckage, glanced back towards the bathroom once, and then started towards Jeanette's bedroom. He ripped open the closet and threw everything from it out onto the floor, until he finally found his clothes, folded up in a pile underneath all of her things. He wondered why he had not looked there before, then reasoned that he had probably been too _drunk_ to think about it. In retrospect, that was all he seemed to have done in his time with Jeanette. No wonder she wanted to be rid of him. No wonder she gave him that ultimatum.

No wonder she did not leave him her new apartment address. She had no faith that he would, or could, sober up and fly right. And he could not really blame her.

But he could sure as hell be pissed off at her.

He finished pulling his clothes on, and now his attention turned to his suitcase. He pulled it up, dropping it down on the bed, and opened it, pulling out his face paint. He emptied white paint into his hands and applied a clean, even coat of it to his face, not forgetting to also paint his ears and throat; he then applied the green-black and, finally, the _coup de gras_: a wicked red smile spanning his lips and the scars on both sides of his mouth. If it were up to him, he would never be seen out of his customary getup again. He picked up his jacket and slipped it on, completing his image, checking to make sure all of his knives were still where he left them in all of the little hidden pockets of his jacket, then pulled out his gloves, slipped them on, and admired his reflection in the bedroom window.

The Joker was back.

He made his way back to the living-room and looked at the wreck of the kitchen one last time. He tut-tutted at the ruins, clicking his tongue like a scolding mother. "What a _mess_," he commented in an amused voice with a wicked grin. "I would hate to be _room service_. Well, let's save them the trouble of cleaning up…" He set down his suitcase and opened it, considering the contents, and then decided on something that looked similar to an egg timer. He pulled it out, set the little timer for five minutes, and then set it down on the counter. It started ticking loudly, counting down the seconds. He quickly snapped his suitcase shut, preparing to head out, when something caught his attention. It was a shiny metal case that was lying on one of the chairs in the living-room. He stared at it for a moment, intrigued, then crossed to it, hesitated, and then opened it.

Inside the case was a slender, chic sniper-rifle. He took it out, turning it over in his gloved hands, admiring it. He wolf-whistled at the gun as he squinted one eye and looked through the view, then the sound of the little egg timer ticking away reached his ears and brought him sharply back to reality. He packed the gun back into its modish case, closed it, and tucked it under his arm, heading for the door. Then, with an echoing, breathy, shrieking laugh, the Joker slammed the door of Jeanette's apartment shut behind him.

As he exited the building, he looked back and, with a cruel, satisfied grin, watched as the entire floor of the hotel that Jeanette had lived on exploded, toppling in on itself and slowly taking the rest of the building with it. He cackled at the sight, then turned and ran, disappearing into a side alley, the only evidence of his ever being there a ragged playing card he had left at the front desk as he had left the building.

Gotham city would be hearing from him soon enough.

. . .

Kitty trusted her.

She couldn't stop thinking about it. Flicker would have played with her lighter to get rid of her nerves, had she not been holding Jeannie Rose. Instead, she toyed with the little frills on the bottom of the girl's dress. She had woken bright and early the minute light hit her face, having slept a few hours, and gone straight to pondering Kitty's words. What in the hell did the lady think she was doing, spouting out something like that?! For all she knew, Flick was just trying to trick her and gain her trust for whatever ridiculous, illegal plan Crane came up with next.

She sighed, and dropped her hand to the floor. Too bad she wasn't.

She sat in the corner of the room she and Goodhart had found with the girl sideways in her lap, head resting against Flicker's chest. She absentmindedly moved her hand up to the girl's head to play with her curls. She was really starting to hate being a member of this little troupe. She wanted a real bed, a real place to rest her head...well, that and a shower, among other things. Her clothes would mold themselves into her skin if she had to wear them any longer.

But all she could think about was Kitty saying what she'd said. "I'm sorry I said you would drop her." Why? That was the truth, Flicker thought, looking out the windows at the morning sky. From what Kitty had seen of her, Flick wasn't the most trustworthy individual you could find to hold your kid. She was spontaneous (almost never in a good way), distracted, and uncaring as a person could get. And then the kicker: "I trust you."

Her feet shifted uncomfortably, and she put both arms around Jeannie Rose. In some small ways, the girl reminded her of herself when she was little. Adorable, precious...Flicker grinned, pushing a few stray curls out of the girl's face. She faintly remembered her hair being curly, too, before she started damaging it beyond recognition with a straightener and hacking most of it off. Her mom had been so disappointed in her, ruining her hair like that...She could still remember the way she'd moaned "Car-ly" when she saw her transformed daughter the summer of her sophomore year of college, decked out in scanty clothing and her favorite sky blue combat boots. Her dad hadn't been too happy, either. "You look like a street punk, Carly."

She sighed and tilted her head back, wondering what the ache in her ribcage was. She wasn't tired, or sick, or anything. In fact, it barely even felt physical. Then she realized what was wrong and scowled.

For the first time in probably half a decade, she'd almost missed her parents.

She quickly turned her thoughts away from her family, instead focusing on the girl again. She was still asleep; that was starting to worry Flick. Was she sick? Had Goodhart done something to her? She glanced suspiciously at the huge guy, snoring loudly on the floor. He could've easily taken one of the couches sitting nearby, but for some reason had just flopped onto the ground the moment he came in and been out cold since. She snorted and shook Jeannie Rose slightly. "Hey, kiddo, wake up." There was no response. She nudged the girl a bit more and said, "You okay, sweetheart?"

Jeannie Rose moaned quietly, squeezed her eyes shut, and yawned sleepily. Then her dark eyes fluttered open and she paused, confused. She had no idea where she was. This was not home. She looked up at the girl holding her. That was definitely not her mother. She stared at Flicker, scared, for another few, long moments, then shut her eyes and started to scream.

Crane shot up in bed, his dark hair dishevelled, crystalline eyes wide, when he heard the screaming. He threw the covers off of himself, grabbing frantically for his clothes, and pulled them roughly on, trying to move as quickly as possible. "That godforsaken child of yours is going to wake up the entire Narrows!" he told Kitty in a clipped, unamused tone, pulling on his socks and shoes. He quickly buttoned his shirt, pulled his jacket on over it and buttoned it up as well, then slipped into his boxers and yanked his pants up after those. Then, without bothering to see if Kitty was awake or okay, he threw open the doors of the room and went to find the source of the screaming.

Jeannie Rose grabbed fistfuls of her curls, scared and confused tears streaming down her reddening face, as she tried to twist out of Flicker's grasp. "YOU AREN'T MY MOMMIE!" she screamed. "I WANT MY MOMMIE! WHERE'S MY MOMMIE?!"

"What the hell is going on?!" Crane demanded, throwing open the doors of the room that Flicker, Goodhart, and the child inhabited and storming inside. He pointed to Flicker and Jeannie Rose. "Can't you keep that child under control?! It will wake the entire Narrows! Do you want every criminal in Gotham to know we're here?!" He crossed to Jeannie Rose, snatching her from Flicker's arms. "This thing will blow our cover!" he exclaimed, holding the child like some kind of feral animal. "Can't you make it stop screaming?! _Do_ something!" he demanded to Goodhart, holding out the child towards him. "Knock it out cold, or give it something to make it stop crying!"

"Jeannie Rose!" Kitty exclaimed, rushing into the room, fully dressed. Crane gladly handed off the screaming child to its mother. Kitty held her daughter close, shushing her, stroking her curly hair, telling her it was all right.

Crane watched her for a moment, then turned away, towards Flicker, and let out his breath in a haughty, assiduous huff. "I'm glad _that's_ over with," he said in what he hoped was a rather calmer, uninterested voice. He cleared his throat, smoothing back his hair into some semblance of place and pulling his jacket, smoothing out the wrinkles. Then he glanced down at his trousers and realized that the zipper was still undone. Swallowing, he reached down, zipped it up, and then folded his hands in front of it, feigning inconspicuousness.

Kitty rocked her daughter gently in her arms, kissing her forehead. Jeannie Rose looked up at her mother with tear-stained cheeks. "That mean lady was holding me, Mommie," she said.

"Shh, Jeannie Rose, no," Kitty said reassuringly, wiping the tears from her daughter's cheeks. "She's not a mean lady. She's a good lady. We like her."

"We do?" Jeannie Rose asked, still sniffling, glancing back over at Flicker.

"Mm-hmm," Kitty said quietly, tucking a lock of Jeannie Rose's hair behind her ear. "Yes, we do." Then she put Jeannie Rose's head back on her shoulder, stroking her soft hair. "Shh, baby, it'll be all right, Mommie's here," she told her daughter softly. "Don't you worry about a thing. I've got you now. We're going to be all right." She said it to her daughter, but she could barely make herself believe it. She had been through everything imaginable at that point… but she was determined to stay strong, if only for her daughter - even if it meant living with her shame. She looked over at Crane, who avoided her gaze. He would pay for what he had done to her, and to her daughter, she told herself. She did not know how, but she knew that she was going to make him pay.

Crane pursed his lips, then cocked his head, looking over at Flicker. "I think it's about time we got going," he said coldly. "Don't you?"

Flicker didn't know what to do. She didn't know at all. She held the floundering child in her arms, careful not to drop her, until Crane appeared and snatched the girl away. She backed away hurriedly, shocked at Jeannie Rose's accusations. Mean lady? It didn't matter that they were coming from a little girl, even if she'd been unconscious for the past day and had no way of knowing who Flick was. They still hurt, especially after Kitty's kind words before.

Flick was more than ready to snap. Her confidence was shattered, her pride was gone, and her attempts to detach herself from reality were, at this point, in the dust. Then she caught Crane zipping his fly with her hawk eyes, and some sort of protective instinct flared up when she saw Kitty's subdued look.

That was the last fucking straw.

She clenched her fists and rounded on Crane. "Well, ex-_cuse_ me for messing up your little _affair_," she spat, taking a few menacing steps forward. Well, as menacing as a five-foot-nine punk could look. "My deepest apologies that I don't know how to calm a kid down. I know more than _you_, at least, you little creep. In fact," she jabbed a finger, hard, into Crane's chest, "I'm pretty sick of you and your rapist garbage. Go take a cold shower, or something. Or at least try at some decency."

Her tirade finally stopped, leaving her hands clenched at her sides, her shoulders raised defensively, and her lungs puffing for air. She slowly relaxed her arms as her eyes opened wide. She was shocked at herself. That wasn't the arsonist Flicker talking; there hadn't been a curse word in the whole thing. That was Carly Fisher talking, the actual person version who cared a little about who she was, who didn't stay happy and bouncy all the time. What was wrong with her? Everything had been fine. All she wanted was to get some explosives, burn some shit down, and have a little fun. And then Kitty had somehow become a real person and changed everything.

Crane frowned, taking a step backwards and brushing off where she had jabbed him in the chest, then straightening his jacket, smoothing out the wrinkles. Then he looked back up at Flicker with scepticism and amusement in his light-blue eyes. "Rape?" he asked, chuckling slightly. "That's a mighty heavy accusation to sling around. Saying that to the wrong person might get you in serious trouble one of these days." He brushed off his shoulder. "Besides," he added, "it wasn't _rape_. It was totally consensual." At this, he turned to look at Kitty. "Wasn't it, Kitty?" he asked, that same false humour in his voice.

Kitty looked up at him, frowning, holding her daughter close. She looked over at Flicker, then her eyes returned to Crane's face, but she said nothing. She just stared at him, distractedly fingering her daughter's curls.

Crane raised his eyebrows at her, staring right back. "I _said_, it was totally consensual," he repeated himself, articulating, his voice dangerous and cold now. "_Wasn't_ it, Kitty?"

She stared at him for another long moment, swallowed, and then said, faintly, "Yes."

"You see?" he said with that same false smile, turning back to Flicker, nonchalant. "You got yourself all worked up over nothing." He checked his cuffs, making sure they were pristine. "Just because the _heat of passion_ hits at the most _inopportune times_ does _not_ mean you have to jump to such _scandalous conclusions,_ Flicker. _You_, of all people, should know that." He smoothed a lock of hair back, trying to return his hair to its usual meticulous, professional style. Then he grinned at her, pulling his glasses from his breast pocket. "So this has all been… really, just one big misunderstanding," he said, too sarcastically good-natured.

He turned away from her, towards Kitty. He grinned at her, then approached her, lowering his face to hers and planting a kiss on her cheek. She shuddered; it turned her skin cold where he touched her. But then he leaned down to her ear. "If you blow this," he whispered slowly, "if you say one word to contradict me, you're going to wish you were never born. Your daughter, either." Then he leaned back away from her, smiled coldly at her again, and turned back to the rest of the group with a sigh and a satisfied smile.

"So, as I said before," he said, clasping his hands together, "shall we head out?"

Jesus, that kid screamed loud.

Jeanette shoved herself upright again, before letting herself fall back to the ground. DAMN, her head hurt. It felt sort of like someone was trying to pry her skull open with a rusty wrench, but ten times worse. She clenched her jaw and shut her eyes, then slowly shifted into a sitting position.

She opened her eyes and immediately regretted it. The light burned her eyes and lit off flashing lights behind them. She shut them immediately and swore that she'd kill the big brutish man if she got the chance. Anger pushed the pain away enough that she could finally look at the scene before her.

The first thing it said to her was _mutiny_. The little blonde chick was storming around and pointing fingers (quite literally); something about rape. Jeanette's eyebrows shot up. Jonathan Crane? A rapist? She hadn't really expected it from the criminal records she'd read on him. He was more the thinker type, who liked to plan out every move and never acted on a whim. She ought to know, since she'd considered going to him instead of Napier. Something had told her, though, that their personalities wouldn't really get along.

It seemed she was right.

Finally, she spoke up in an irritated tone. "Sorry to interrupt, but am I just going to be left out of the loop, here?" She rotated her jaw, paid with another flash of pain, and winced. "And I could use some Advil, my head twinges a bit."

Crane looked over in surprise when he heard an unfamiliar female voice, only to find that the jogger had awoken. He arched an eyebrow at her, slipping on his glasses, and stared at her, taking in her details. She was well-built, for a girl; sinewy but strong. He was glad he had Goodhart on his side, because he would never have been able to take her out, himself, even though she was shorter than he was… not by much, though. He did not let this bother him. Who really needed brawn when you had brains?

Sufficient brawn and lack of brains was a terrible combination. Crane could list two people off the top of his head who fit that description.

He grinned coldly at the jogger. "Good morning, sunshine," he said icily. "It's good to see you weren't… _killed_." His eyes darted to Goodhart in disdain, and then back to the jogger. He cocked his head slightly at her, folding his hands behind his back. "We don't have anything for your headache, unfortunately," he said slowly, "but I'm sure it will get better in a little while. Seventy percent of the pain you feel in a headache is…" He chuckled. "Well, it's _all in your head_," he said, amusing himself.

"As for what's going on," he said, starting to move away from the group a bit, "We're just having a slight _altercation_. No need for concern… or continuation," he said pointedly, looking at Flicker. "It's totally resolved now." He turned, looking back at the jogger. "Well, we have options here," he said. His eyes strayed and his mouth opened slightly as he thought, in the middle of forming a sentence. "Either… we knock you out and leave you in an alley, so that when you awake you won't have any idea where we are…" His eyes slid to the other side, and he went on, just as slowly, "Or you could join us, and help us with what we're doing." His light-blue eyes flicked back to her, and he grinned wickedly. "Of course, you'll be cuffed until we can trust you," he added.

He crossed to her and knelt down in front of her. He knew from the day before that he could not intimidate this girl the same way he had intimidated and, eventually, broken Kitty. This girl was a much harder case to crack. He folded his hands between his knees, staring at her, just out of reach. "It's really up to you," he said, spreading his hands in a way that said, _you can trust me_. "You can go free with just a bump to the head… or you can stay with us, and help us find Jack Napier."

He folded his hands between his knees again, staring at her from behind his glasses. "So," he said slowly, studying her face, "what's it going to be?"

Jeanette's aching brain latched onto only two words.

_Jack Napier._

There was no chance this was a coincidence. They were trying to find Napier, and they had a woman (who looked about his age) called Kitty in their little group. Jeanette couldn't stop her eyes from widening in surprise, but she quickly resumed a mask of indifference. Time to play her cards close to the chest.

"Could I bother you to ask _why_ we're looking for this Napier fellow?" she asked as innocently as she could. There wasn't a chance in hell that she would tell Crane what she knew. To be honest, she didn't know anything. She suddenly remembered with a hefty amount of guilt her promise to Napier the night before. _I'll leave the address of the apartment on the kitchen table._

Shit. He must have gone ballistic.

Flicker glared pointedly at Crane, refusing point-blank to believe the bullshit about it being consensual. She bet her life on it. Kitty was too afraid to say anything, though. Flick ground her teeth together in frustration, and finally turned away from the doctor.

He'd better watch his back. Some day, he would wake up with his greasy hair on fire.

She'd stick with this little company...for now. If only for Kitty and Jeannie Rose's sakes.

Crane paused. She knew something. She knew something, and she was not telling him. He frowned slightly, but tried to keep his usual blank look of superiority and mock amiability. He opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, then closed it and cleared his throat. "Jack Napier… is an old associate of mine," Crane said slowly, choosing his words carefully, in case this woman was actually someone that he did not want to mess with. If she ended up being too much of a thread, he decided, they could always kill her. Finding bodies in the Narrows was almost a daily thing.

His eyes strayed for a moment as he considered how to word the situation to her. "We were… business partners, at one time," he said slowly, articulating his speech, "and he… decided to work for an opposing company, because of the… benefits." He paused here, biting his lips slightly, thinking. He nodded slowly, thinking it over. "Jack Napier… took something of mine, when he left our… business." He swallowed. He was treading on a bed of needles. "And I wanted to find him, to get it back… because I have something of his… that I think he would be interested in trading for."

His eyes flicked back to her face, and he closed his mouth, taking a deep breath through his nose. That had been hard, but now he was safely over the treacherous part. "It's all a simple problem of supply and demand, like you study in school," he said. "He has something I want, I have something he wants, we meet in the middle, and we can both go home happy." He grinned at her. Of course he was not going to tell her the real truth. Only one of them would be going home happy… and alive. And if Crane had anything to say about it, it would _not_ be Jack Napier.

Jack Napier had stolen the title of Gotham's most feared criminal right out from under Crane, and Crane would have none of it. He would take the title back by force, and once again make the Scarecrow the one that haunted the dreams of Gotham's children, the mad, driving force behind the city's most despicable crimes - women would cry, men would cower, and Batman would be helpless. If he were to eliminate Napier, then every low-life thug would flock to him, and he would be able to rebuild his empire of fear bigger, better, and more terrifying than ever before.

Butofcourse, he was not about to tell that to this stranger.

He blinked slowly, meditatively, and grinned coldly at her. "So," he said again. "What's it going to be? The choice is up to you. Go free… or join us?"

They had worked together? That was something Jeanette hadn't known, and it surprised her. She just couldn't see two men who were so clearly nothing alike teaming up. But she didn't think Crane was lying about that part. It was the trade that he was so clearly skirting around in details. That was obvious enough.

So all that was left was finding out exactly what Napier had taken from Crane, assuming the doctor was telling the truth. And getting Kitty away from him and his thugs, of course, preferably with what appeared to be her daughter, and arranging a meeting with Napier, who was most likely already gone from the hotel and angry beyond belief at her.

She heaved a sigh. All in a day's work, right?

The flicker of understanding in Crane's eyes was clear. He knew that she'd recognized the name. She couldn't correct the slip, so she'd just have to use it to her advantage. She shrugged at his final question, tilting her head to the side in a blatant mimic of his own quirk. "Just one last question. Is the...ah..._thing_ that you have of his standing in this room?" She nodded at Kitty with a mild smile.

Crane started to turn around and look at Kitty, but stopped. He stared at Jeanette, the grin fading from his face. She _did_ know. He knew she had known _something_, but he had not known _what_. Now he knew. This was a dangerous woman he was dealing with. "_Elle sait_," he murmured to himself, turning away from her, frowning. "_Elle sait plus que la pensée d'I. Elle sait trop_." He stood, folding one hand behind his back, the other one moving to his mouth, a pensive, bent finger resting thoughtfully on his full bottom lip. He paced a bit, every so often glancing back at her, then turning away again.

"_Elle sait trop_," he repeated quietly, putting his hand to his head. He paced again, then turned back to face her. "_Elle doit mourir_," he said. He considered her, then turned away again, going back to pacing. "_Non_." he reasoned, putting his hand out in front of him, palm-up. "_Pas, elle ne doit pas mourir_." He folded both hands behind his back, hesitated, and then turned to look at her again, considering her. "_Pas encore_," he finally concluded.

He took a deep, settling breath, then, pulling his jacket straight, he put the cold, stiff smile back onto his face. "Forgive me," he said with a breathy chuckle, "I sometimes _think out loud_." He crossed back over to her, kneeling down in front of her. He considered her, pursing his lips, then took off his glasses, folding them back up, and stashed them in his breast pocket. "You're sharp," he admitted. He looked up, locking eyes with her. "Yes, the thing of Napier's I have… is standing in this room." he said. "You probably already know… who it is."

He looked down at his folded hands, then over at Kitty. She was staring at the new woman with a strange expression that he could not quite read. That worried him; usually he could read Kitty like a book. He looked back at the woman, watching her face for any signs, but found nothing. Then he exhaled, biting his lip. "I've asked you this… twice now," he said, trying to retain his patience. He looked down at his hands again, then over towards Flicker, and finally back at Jeanette. "Do you want to go free… or do you want to join us?"

He wavered a bit, opening his mouth slightly, poised on the edge of a statement. Then he said, in a lower voice, making sure to articulate dangerously, "It would be best if you could decide quickly." He smirked at her, blinking slowly. "I'm not… a patient man."

Jeanette watched the man's thought process with growing apprehension. She had visited France only once, for a very high-profile assassination, but she'd never taken an interest in the language. In fact, the only word she'd heard enough on the mission to even remember was "_mourir_", meaning (of course) die.

It worried her when she heard that word crop up, twice, in Crane's distracted mutterings.

Perhaps she had overstepped her bounds, gotten involved in something too deep for her to handle. The thought almost made her laugh. She doubted it. Better tread carefully, all the same. She was on dangerous ground. She covered her uneasiness with a forced smile. "A pretty dangerous habit, don't you think? Imagine if I knew even a word of French."

She finally snapped out of her thinking and looked Crane in the eye. "I do believe I'll stick around, for a little while." She didn't smile as she added, "It might do your ego good to have someone around who isn't scared stiff of you, _Jonathan._" Yes, she'd stay with their little entourage. At least until they let their guard slip enough for her to get Kitty and the girl away. Jeanette wondered why she would even bother, then realized that, in a way, she felt like she owed Jack.

_Napier._ She owed _Napier._

She held out her wrists and shook her hands around. "Handcuffs, then?"

She was right, Crane thought. What if he actually came across someone who was also fluent in French? Improbable, in a city run mostly by uneducated thugs, but not impossible. There were always the affluent few, like Bruce Wayne and, apparently, this girl, who were prone to know more than they let on. He pursed his lips, swallowing, then forced a cold, tight grin. "I'm glad you don't have any more questions," he said with a forced, breathy chuckle. "We may have had to kill you."

He signalled for Goodhart to bring over the handcuffs that they had used on the jogger the day before, and he clicked them onto her outstretched wrists. His brow furrowed slightly as he tightened them around her slender wrists, and, biting his lip, he asked, "Ah, if you wouldn't mind disclosing, I am _very_ curious how you came to know that Napier had any relation to anyone in this room… besides myself." He finished with her handcuffs and his eyes moved to her face, scrutinizing her. "It's not common knowledge," he said. "The only people who know about it, as far as we know, are myself… and a handful of Gotham's finest." He eyed her dangerously. "You wouldn't happen to be part of the force… would you?" he asked slowly.

He watched her face for a minute, then the stilted, breathy chuckle returned to his lips. "Well, it doesn't really matter either way, because you're unarmed, and as long as you don't try to run… back to the police," his smile faded here into a dangerous expression as he spoke slowly, pronouncing every word carefully, "we won't have any… _problems_."

The cruel, icy grin began to creep up his lips again, and he stood, looking around at the rest of the party. He cocked his head, his eyes moving between each of them, then opened his mouth to speak, paused, and then said, "I think it would be best… if we got going now." He looked over at Kitty, who was still holding her daughter protectively. He walked over to her, leaned forward, and told her in a low voice, "I'll let you carry the creature for now. But one attempt to run away, or one word contradicting me, or one attempt to cry for help, and you'll never hold her again."

He leaned back now, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet, his hands folded professionally behind his back, then motioned with one hand for the group to follow, and started out of the room.


	21. Chapter Twenty

Rachel opened her eyes with a satisfied, quiet sigh. Her head was resting on Harvey Dent's chest, and she could feel him breathing, and hear his steady, redoubtable heartbeat pumping. She ran a hand over his ribcage, and smiled when she felt his hand cover hers. "You okay?" he asked.

"Never better," she replied, curling up closer to him.

He smiled down at her, wrapping a strong arm around her bare shoulders and pulling her closer to him, kissing the top of her dark head. He entwined his fingers with hers over his chest, leaning his head against hers, and smiling, closing his eyes. "Me, too," he said.

"Harvey," Rachel said, and Harvey opened his eyes and looked at her. She looked up at him. "Do you think Gotham is really a suitable place for two people… any two people… to start a family? Especially with everything that's been going on lately…?"

He frowned a bit, looking away, rubbing his hand slowly up and down her arm. "That's a good question, Rachel," he said. He glanced over at his bedside table, where his lucky coin sat, heads-up, dully glistening against the wood. He reached over and picked it up, then held it up for her to see. "Heads, we leave Gotham to start a family," he said. "Tails, we stay here and live in fear." She propped herself up on her elbows in interest as he flipped the coin, caught it, and turned it over. He looked over at her with a boxy smile. "Ready?" he asked. She nodded eagerly. He lifted his hands and showed her the coin: _Heads_.

Rachel stared at the coin for a long moment, then looked up at Dent. "But… we're not even married yet," she said.

Dent looked over at her. "That _could_ be a problem," he agreed. Reaching over and taking one of her hands in both of his, he paused, his eyes locking with hers, and smiled. "Rachel Dawes," he said quietly, "will you marry me?"

Rachel did not know what to say. It was all so sudden. Harvey was a wonderful man, and she was very much in love with him, but there was always Bruce to consider. Bruce had been there for her, as a friend, as a lover, as a saviour, since they were both children. Then Bruce had become something entirely different; Bruce had become a vigilante, an obsessed caped crusader whose one goal in life had become to stop Gotham's countless criminals. His focus had shifted violently, and Rachel had been left behind in the dust. But she could not forget that she had promised him that if he were to give up his stint as Batman, she would be with him.

She had given him so much time, but he never seemed willing to give up his cape and cowl.

But she was still not sure she was ready just yet to jump, full speed ahead, into a marriage with the new love of her life.

She finally smiled sadly at Dent. "I don't know, Harvey," she said quietly. "I… would have to give it some thought."

His expression saddened, but he still maintained his smile. "That's fine," he said. He kissed her hand, then let go of it, staring over at her. "I love you, Rachel," he told her.

She smiled at him. "I love you, too, Harvey," she said. Then, with a sigh, she pulled the covers off of herself and started getting dressed.

Dent propped himself up on his elbows, watching her. "Where are you going?" he asked.

"I'm going home to get some sleep," Rachel replied, zipping up her dress. "I've got a busy day tomorrow."

"You could always spend the night here," Dent suggested.

Rachel turned and looked at him with a sceptical grin. "No, I couldn't," she said. "You would keep me up all night."

Dent chuckled, watching her pull her shoes on and pick up her bag. "You're not… _mad_ at me, or anything, right, Rachel?" he suddenly asked.

Rachel turned to look at him. "Harvey," she said in a slightly scolding tone. "I could _never_ be mad at you."

He smiled at her, then lay back down on his pillow. "I'll see you tomorrow, then," he said, closing his eyes.

Rachel stared at him for a long moment, smiling. "All right," she finally said, quietly. Then she moved to the door, opened it, and let herself out.

Rachel fished her keys out of her purse and moved to her car, putting the key into the door to unlock it, then noticing that it was already unlocked. She shrugged. She must have forgotten to unlock it before going up to Harvey's apartment. She took her key out of the door, let herself into the car, and shut the door.

Suddenly, she felt cold metal against her throat. "Hello, _Rachel Dawes_," a lilting voice spoke in her ear.

Rachel froze. This was the first time she had ever had any kind of encounter with the infamous Joker; he was so close she could smell him. He smelt of blood, liquor, and the strange, earthy smell of stage makeup. It was the blood that disturbed her the most. She swallowed. "My wallet is in my purse," she said slowly, pointing towards it. "I have money in there. You can have it. Just please don't hurt me."

"I don't want your _money_, Rachel," the Joker replied with a sceptical chuckle. "You insult me. You must think I'm no better than a common thug."

"No, I don't think that," Rachel said. "I know you're a very dangerous person."

"That's right," Joker replied. The knife moved slightly on her throat. "Now, you have something I need, and I'm determined to get it." He licked his lips. "Would you like to know what it is?" Rachel bit her lip. "Well, I'll tell you," he said without waiting for an answer. "You know about the Batman." His tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth as he moistened it. "I want to know what you know." He wet his lips again. "I'm sure we can work something out."

"Please, don't kill me," Rachel pleaded.

"_Kill_ you?" Joker laughed at this. "I don't want to _kill_ you, Rachel. Not yet, anyways. Right now, I just want to pick your brain." He lifted a lock of her dark hair with his knife, then let it fall back to her shoulder. Then the knife returned to her throat. "Just drive, and I'll tell you where to go. It's a _special_ place of mine, that I don't share with _anybody_… except very _special people_."

Rachel put the keys into the ignition with a shaking hand and started the car. She was almost certain she was headed to her own death. Would it not be better, she thought, to drive the car over a cliff and take out both herself and the Joker, therefore ending his reign of terror in Gotham? But there were no convenient cliffs anywhere remotely nearby, and besides, if she cooperated, he might let her go free.

It was a slim chance and probably a false hope, but it was the only hope she had.

She put the car into Drive and they started on their way.

. . .

Gordon unlocked the front door of his house and let himself in, hanging up his hat on the rack by the front door, then slipping off his coat and hanging it up as well. "Sarah," he called. "Honey, I'm home."

"Oh, thank goodness," said Sarah, walking out of the kitchen. She embraced her husband, then gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "We worry about you every day," she said.

Gordon smiled at her, then looked over her shoulder as a little boy, about eight years old, and a little girl, maybe nine, came rushing out of the kitchen as well. Sarah stepped aside as the children ran up to hug their father. Gordon laughed, taking one child in each arm and hugging them tightly.

"Dad, we heard there was a _a-splosion_ an' a _fire_," James said, eyes wide. "They said there was _the Joker _there. Did you see the Joker, Dad?"

Gordon looked over at his wife, who looked just as interested, if a little hesitant, then between his two children. "Yes," he said in an enthused voice. "I _did_ see the Joker!"

"Was he all dressed up like they say he always is?" asked Barbara, who seemed just as fascinated as James. "They say he dresses all up like a _clown_, Dad! Was he all dressed up?"

"Yes!" Gordon said again, looking at his little girl. "He was all dressed up like a clown. A really _scary _clown." He kissed both of them on the forehead. "Now go eat your supper, I'm sure your mother worked really hard making that for you." Both children scampered back off to the kitchen. Gordon turned to Sarah, who was watching him, apprehensive.

"Did you really see the Joker?" she asked quietly, a little doubtful.

Gordon nodded. "Scariest experience of my life, once I figured it out," he admitted.

Sarah nodded, too. "He _wasn't_ dressed as a clown, _was_ he?" she asked.

Gordon shook his head. "He was dressed as a fireman," he said. "Stole one of the uniforms. Probably killed the guy wearing it to get it."

Sarah cringed and looked away. "Jesus, Jim," she said quietly.

"I didn't want to tell the children, because then they'd start seeing him everywhere," Gordon explained. Then he sighed. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have told you, either," he said, watching her. "I didn't mean to scare you - "

"What scares me is that it could've been _you_, Jim," she said, looking back at him.

Gordon stopped, surprised, his mouth hanging slightly open. He closed it, then said, "I'm careful, Sarah. And I've got Batman on my side."

"You can't always depend on Batman to back you up, Jim," Sarah said. "What if, one day, Batman ends up facing someone he can't beat? Then what? Then the bad guys will start coming for _you_. I don't want that."

"Well, what _do_ you want, Sarah?" he asked, wringing his hands. "Do you want me to quit the force?"

She sighed, looking at him. Then she moved to him and put her arms around his neck, embracing him. "I just don't want to see anything happen to you," she said. "I love you, Jim."

Gordon put his arms around his wife. "I love you, too, Sarah," he said.

. . .

Bruce Wayne straightened his tie as he pushed open the doors of the closed-in balcony of the new Wayne Manor. The balcony - as it was called, even though it was just a room in the house that was panelled with huge windows instead of walls - was a large room with comfortable, squatty armoires and a calming blue carpet where Bruce liked to go to think. Alfred would often bring him afternoon tea in that room, or, if he chose to stay at Wayne Manor at night and not in the Batcave, breakfast.

But, looking up, he was met with a different visitor.

He stopped in his tracks, staring at the newcomer, who was looking longingly out the window. After a moment, Bruce cleared his throat, and the newcomer turned, hesitated, and then smiled at him.

"Mister Wayne," Lucius Fox grinned amiably at him. "I've been waiting for you to get back. I've got something to show you."

"Antidote for Crane's toxin?" Wayne asked, moving forward into the room towards the chairs and seating himself in one of them.

Fox took the other chair and pulled a suitcase towards him that had been leaning against it. "Not quite," he said, opening the suitcase. He turned it so that Wayne could see inside.

Wayne frowned. "What's that?" he asked, looking back up at Fox.

Fox's grin widened. "That," he said, "is my newest invention. Lucky for us, Crane has decided to lay low and not try anything new with his toxin. So…" He pulled one of the things out of the briefcase and held it up for Wayne to see. "I had a little bit of time to do some inventing."

"Using my funds," Wayne put in.

"I didn't think you'd mind," replied Fox, unfazed.

"I don't," said Wayne. "Go on."

"This little baby," Fox indicated it, "looks like a normal cell phone. But it's not. You slip this cell phone into somebody's purse, and you can see exactly where they are and where they're going, with the proper technology."

Wayne frowned. "Sounds like the cell tracking system the police have had for… _ten years_, now," he said.

Fox smiled knowingly at him, then turned on the phone. "You hold that, Mister Wayne," he said. Then he reached into his briefcase and pulled out a slim laptop computer and turned it on. "When I boot this up," Fox said, "we'll see if this is exactly the same as your _cell tracking system_."

Wayne watched in interest as Fox did his tech work. He had never understood how things like tracking systems worked, but had always been appreciative of the science, either way. He looked down at the phone in his hands, turning it over. It looked like any ordinary phone. There had to be a catch.

"Mister Wayne?"

Bruce looked up to see Fox turning the computer towards him. On the screen was a maze of blue lines and hypermetallic images that seemed to form…

"Is that… Wayne Manor?" Bruce asked, mesmerized.

"Every inch of it," Fox replied with a grin. "Mapped out in sonar readings."

Bruce looked down at the phone in his hand, impressed. "Nice," he said. Fox closed the laptop and stashed it back in his briefcase. Wayne looked up at him. "Say, Lucius, how are things?" he asked.

Fox looked up at him in surprised interest. "_Things_, Mister Wayne?" he asked.

"Yeah,_ things_," Wayne said. "You know… things at home. Not all this work stuff."

Fox leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap. "Well," he said, "my baby sister's in the hospital."

"Oh, that's awful!" said Wayne. "How old is she?"

"Forty-five," said Fox, nodding. He grinned. "Not really a baby anymore, but she's still my little sister."

"What's the matter with her, that she's in the hospital?" Wayne asked.

Fox frowned here, thinking. "Well, she used to be in Arkham - "

"You sister was in Arkham?" Wayne asked, intrigued.

"She _worked_ there," Fox specified. "She's got… _trauma_, from a gunshot wound to the head." He indicated his own head. "Apparently the shot was fired at close range. She bled a whole lot, but they managed to call in a team in time, and they say she's gonna be a-okay."

"That's good, I guess," said Wayne, still frowning worriedly. "What's her name?"

"Jessica," Fox said with a smile, nodding. "Her name is Jessica. I was just on my way to go up to see her when I decided to stop by here and show you my invention - "

"Can I come, too?" Wayne asked, perhaps a little too quickly. "And… can I bring a friend?"

Fox blinked here, surprised and a little confused. "Uh… sure, Mister Wayne," he said. "Jessica loves company… I guess."

Wayne held up the cell phone Fox had given him. "Does this work as an actual phone, too, or just a tracking system?" he asked.

"No, no, it works as a phone," Fox said, still more than a little confused.

"Great," said Wayne, getting up from his chair. "You go on ahead, Lucius, we'll meet you there." With that, he walked out of the room, dialling Gordon's number.

Fox stared after him for a long moment, brow furrowed in confusion. Then he shook his head. "That Bruce Wayne is one messed-up cracker," he said.

. . .

Gordon was just sitting down to dinner when the phone rang. All four of the people at the table looked up, but only Gordon got to his feet, crossed to the phone, and answered. "Hello?" he asked.

"Who is it, Dad?" asked James. "Is it the station? Did they catch the Joker?"

"Did they? Did they catch the Joker?" asked Barbara.

"Shh!" Sarah put a finger to her lips, shushing her children. "Daddy's on the phone!"

Gordon put a hand over the mouthpiece and looked back at his family. "It's Bruce Wayne," he said, confused. "He says that he was talking to an old associate, and he was told something that he didn't know if it was a relevant tip or not, so he wanted to call me to see." He put the phone back to his ear. "Yeah?" he asked. "Okay, that sounds legitimate enough."

"Who's Bruce Wayne?" Barbara asked, turning to her mother.

"He's that real rich guy who burnded down his house last year," James said with a giggle.

"_Burnt_ down his house," Sarah corrected him. She turned to Barbara. "Bruce Wayne is a nice man who helps your father in his job," she said. Then she looked back up at Gordon. "Though we aren't sure why," she added quietly. Wayne's involvement had always worried her, because she saw no reason for it. Then again, Gordon trusted him as a friend, and Wayne's money was enough to buy the Gotham police department five times over, and then some. If he wanted to help out, more power to him. But Sarah could still not help but feel a little uneasy whenever Bruce Wayne was brought up in the conversation.

Gordon hung up the phone and turned back to his family. "I'm real sorry, guys," he said, shrugging. "I have to go look into this, it might be really important to the Crane case." Then his eyebrows shot up as he remembered something. "Oh, I should call Maria to let her know!" he said. He turned and picked up the phone again, dialling Maria's number.

Sarah frowned worriedly. "Maria…?" she asked.

Gordon put a finger over his lips. "Hey, Maria," he said, speaking to her answering machine, "this is Jim Gordon. I just got a call from Bruce Wayne that he may have found something really pivotal to the Crane case, and I was wondering if you could come down and take a look. We're meeting up at Gotham General Hospital. Please try to come as soon as possible. Thanks a lot - see you soon!" He hung up the phone and turned back to his family.

Sarah was staring at him, a strange expression on her face. "Who's Maria?" she asked.

"She's a writer," Gordon answered plainly. That did not seem to lift Sarah's mood at all. "She was doing a story on Crane before he escaped. She's been helping with the investigations of both Crane and the Joker's disappearances since the beginning."

"And you're on a first-name basis with her?" Sarah asked slowly.

Gordon opened his mouth to speak, reconsidered, then closed it. "I… have to go," he said. He started out of the kitchen.

"You aren't gonna eat any dinner, Dad?" asked James.

Gordon ruffled his son's blonde hair. "I'll be back in no time flat, okay, sport?" he said. "Then I'll eat my dinner. Mom can heat it up for me when I get back."

"Catch the Joker, Dad!" Barbara said with a smile.

"I will!" Gordon said. Then he leaned down and kissed his wife's cheek. "I'll be back soon, okay?" he said.

Sarah nodded, but said nothing.

Gordon swiped his hat and jacket from the hooks by the front door, and then exited the house, making sure to lock the front door behind him.

. . .

Wayne sat in the waiting-room of the hospital, tapping his foot quietly, every so often checking his Rolex to see how much time had passed. He sighed and let his cuff down for what seemed like the hundredth time when he heard the doors of the waiting-room open and Officer Gordon came in. Wayne put on a tight smile and nodded greetings to Gordon. "Thanks for coming down," he said. "I didn't know if it was something good or if it was just a whim. I'm glad I was right!"

"I'll be even more glad if your whim turns out to be something really important," Gordon said, nodding and taking a seat next to Wayne. He sighed heavily. Then he turned to Wayne. "I called Maria," he said. "She might be coming down here, too. It depends."

"Depends on what?" asked Wayne.

Gordon shrugged. "Depends on whether she wants to or not," he answered candidly.

Wayne nodded, looking away. Then he looked back at Gordon. "Did you ever find her a place to stay?" he asked.

Gordon nodded. "Booked her a stay in a hotel. Gotham police department's paying all expenses."

"I'd be happy to cover those," Wayne said with a shrug. He sighed, folding his hands in his lap. "And the children?"

"They're doing just fine. They're here, at Gotham General," Gordon indicated the hospital as a whole. "I spoke with someone today about it. They said the two of them are going to be just fine."

"That's good," conceded Wayne. "By the way, did you find anything at Kitty's house?"

Gordon paused, staring at him. "That's right, you didn't come," he said in what could have been called an unimpressed monotone. "Get lost driving again?"

Wayne shook his head. "It didn't really sound like I was needed, so I just went home," he said.

Gordon nodded. That sounded reasonable enough. "So you have no idea what happened?" he asked. Wayne shook his head again. Gordon took a deep breath, paused, and then said, "Bruce… Kitty's _dead_."

Wayne quickly turned to look at Gordon, and his eyebrows shot up in surprise. "For real?" he asked. "Not like before, where everyone thought she was dead but she wasn't…?"

"No," Gordon shook his head, "she's really dead this time. Someone blew up her house. It's gone, Bruce. There's nothing left."

"Blew up her house?" asked Wayne. "As in, literally blew it up? With explosives?"

"Logging dynamite, we think," Gordon nodded. "Took out the entire house. There's nothing left but the foundation."

"Logging dynamite?" Wayne frowned. "Why logging dynamite?"

"Because it's the easiest kind to get," explained Gordon. "All other types of explosives have all kinds of safety precautions and paperwork and things. You can't just waltz into a hardware store and buy construction dynamite. You have to have proof from the construction company that you need it."

"But apparently you can waltz in and buy logging dynamite," put in Wayne.

"Unfortunately," agreed Gordon. "There are lots of independent loggers, so logging dynamite is the most easily accessible dynamite there is."

"Wow," Wayne said, quietly impressed and mortified. He stared at his hands in his lap for a long moment. Then he looked up at Gordon again. "Do you think Maria will come?" he asked.

Gordon took a deep breath, then exhaled in a loud huff. "Well, we can only hope," he said.

. . .

The leather seats of Thomas' Buick were wearing horribly from hard use. The steering wheel cover that he'd installed probably a decade ago had holes in it that showed where he rested his hands. A few coffee stains and plenty of empty Starbucks mugs littered the floor of the car. The back bumper was dented in more places than usually considered appropriate for a car.

Thomas sighed and patted the dashboard. He'd probably be driving this car until the day he died, but that didn't mean he had to love it.

A quick appearance check in the mirror was in order; after all, one had to look one's best before one went digging for a breaking story. He peered into the rear-view mirror at the sleep-deprived bags under his grey-blue eyes, the pale color of his usually tan skin from spending too many days inside, the hints of untrimmed facial hair playing around his usually clean-shaven chin, and his ruffled sandy hair in obvious need of brushing, and wished that he hadn't checked.

He exited the and shut the door behind him with a slam, then stood on the curb of Gotham General Hospital. He held a sort of affection for the place. Seeing something so sterile compared to the rest of Gotham was comforting. He'd visited the place enough, too; both of his parents had been checked into the hospital at one point or another for various health issues before they passed away. In a way, the hospital was a home-away-from-home. But that didn't make this particular trip any easier. He took a deep breath of smoggy air, coughed, and went inside.

He leaned on the entrance desk and asked the receptionist in a friendly tone, "Bruce Wayne and police commissioner Gordon came in here a few minutes ago, right?" She nodded and motioned to the sitting area right behind him. He turned and, upon seeing both men calmly seated, gave a sort of resigned sigh. "Sorry," he told the girl with an apologetic shrug before heading over to the pair.

Taking an abrupt seat next to the commissioner, Thomas looked him over. The man was a good few years Thomas' senior, but there were a few worry lines that he didn't remember from their last meeting. Gordon looked exhausted. Thomas couldn't blame him; the guy had been after this new "Joker" baddie for the last few days, not to mention the numerous other criminals currently on the loose. He probably hadn't had a good night's sleep in a week. "Evening, Jim." Then he turned to Gordon's companion. The multi-millionaire Bruce Wayne. It was hard to believe that _Wayne_ had tipped Gordon off, but his friend who worked at the hospital had sworn to his story. Thomas eyed him for a minute, then held out a hand. "Bruce Wayne, is it? I'm Thomas Hale."

Gordon glanced over at the newcomer. "Oh," he said, less than enthused. "Hello, Thomas." He turned back to staring at the wall, folding his arms. Whenever Thomas Hale made an appearance, that meant that bad news and even worse publicity was on the way. Unlike most things in life, Thomas Hale could always be counted on, if only to make a bad situation worse. Gordon and Hale had had many prior dealings, and they had never ended well for Gordon.

To Bruce Wayne, the man seemed friendly enough, despite Gordon's apparent cold shoulder. Wayne took the hand offered him with a tight smile. "Yes, it is," he said. "It's good to meet you, Mister Hale." He let go of the reporter's hand, still watching him. "You have impeccable timing," Wayne noted.

"It's a gift," Gordon said bitterly. "He made a pact with the devil so he could know exactly where the action is."

"Oh, Gordon, you kidder," said Wayne with a large, if false, grin. Then he turned back to Hale. If Gordon disliked him so much, there must be something not quite right about this Thomas Hale fellow. Wayne could not quite place it, on the surface, but, subconsciously, he felt that there was something a little bit… _off_ about this reporter character, too. He decided it was just his Batman intuition acting up, and ignored it. "Officer Gordon has been hard at work on the Joker and Crane cases lately. Have you been covering those?"

"Didn't you see his articles?" Gordon asked, huffing acrimoniously. "'Homicidal Maniac Escapes from Prison'? 'The Joker Destroys Police Station'? 'City Suffers under Jester of Crime'? He sees and knows _all._"

"Jester of Crime, I remember that one," Wayne said with a smile, indicating Hale. "That was clever."

"Don't give him the big head, Bruce," Gordon muttered. "God knows he doesn't need it."

Just then, Fox walked into the waiting-room. He looked surprised to see so many people sitting with Bruce Wayne. He indicated Gordon and Hale. "These your friends, Mister Wayne?" he asked. "A cop and a reporter?"

"Uh, this is Mister Thomas Hale," Wayne indicated the newcomer.

"Oh, I know who it is," said Fox. "He's the guy who writes all those really negative stories about the police department. I'm surprised he and Officer Gordon here aren't tearing each other's heads off."

"Trust me, it hasn't been easy," Gordon replied, still staring ahead at the wall.

"Hm." Fox conceded. Then he pointed back the way he came. "Jessica's awake now, so if you guys want to come in and visit for a bit…"

"We're still waiting on someone," Wayne said, nodding, smiling at Fox. "She should be here any minute, though, so we'll be right in."

"Oh," said Fox, still a bit thrown. "Okay. Well, Jessica's ready to see you - all of you - whenever you decide to come." He looked at them for a bit longer, then shrugged and disappeared back the way he came.

Wayne paused, checked his Rolex, and then turned to Gordon. "You really think she'll come?" he asked. "After all she's been through?"

Gordon shrugged, sighing heavily. "I don't know, Bruce," he said.

Thomas gave Gordon a genuinely hurt look. "Good to see you too. Oh, come on, Jim, you know I respect you," he said earnestly, looking between the commissioner and Wayne. Then a dark look passed over his face. "It's your men I have a bit of trouble with."

He scowled again at Fox's comments. He was destined to be the black sheep at this little gathering, it seemed. Not that it had ever bothered him before. "Just doing my job, Mr. Fox," he said, justifying his actions with a sweep of his hand. It wasn't _his_ fault the Gotham police deserved to be taken down a peg or two. He was just an agent of justice, so to speak.

He eyed the newcomer. So a friend or relative of Fox's was in the hospital, and Wayne and Gordon were visiting? Thomas knew that Wayne was pretty good friends with the man; Fox was his right-hand man at Wayne Enterprises. But why would Gordon have come? What did this have to do with the police?

He tucked a hand casually into the pocket of his black overcoat and quietly switched his hidden recorder on. Might be better if the men didn't think they were being taped. He focused again on Gordon and asked with great interest, "'She'? Some new friend of yours?"

"Actually, speaking of new friends, I was wondering if you could enlighten me about _this_." He pulled a photograph he'd taken the night of the Wayne Enterprises Gala from his pocket and handed it over to Gordon. The man and woman pictured were completely unremarkable, just your average high-profile individuals, but a closer look revealed a rather..._interesting_ spattering of scars across the man's face, focused around the mouth. "Took this at the Gala, you'll remember it," he said, nodding at Wayne. "One of the guests told me they were foreign business entrepreneurs. Dolohov, I think she called them. But something about him," he pointed at the man, "seems awfully familiar."

Gordon took the photograph and stared at it, and Wayne looked over at it, too. _Shit._ How had this man gotten a picture of Napier at the gala? Wayne thought he had specifically banned all photography from the gala… but, then again, one of his security guards had also let Crane in, so his confidence in the security at the gala was less than zero. But still… of everyone at the gala that he could have possibly snapped a picture of, why had he zeroed in on Napier? Perhaps Gordon was right… maybe this man did have some eerie sixth sense to know exactly what to do that would cause the most stir.

"Uh, she's a friend of _mine,_ Mister Hale," Wayne said distractedly. "I asked Officer Gordon to come along in case… she could identify her attacker. Since it was a gunshot wound."

"Which could very well be self-inflicted," pointed out Gordon.

"This is true," conceded Wayne. He stared at the photograph for another long moment before looking up at Hale. "This is Casper Dolohov," he said, indicating the man with the scars. "He's an old business partner of mine. We did a lot of public business dealings lately… maybe that's where you recognize him from." He pointed to the scarring around Napier's face. "He… got that in a _car crash_," Wayne said, hoping he did not sound too unconvincing. "He… wasn't wearing his seatbelt. He and his wife got hit by a drunk driver, and he went through the windshield." He handed the photograph back to Hale. "He's very sensitive about it," he added in an undertone. "He doesn't like to mention his scars."

"I think Mister Dolohov went home after the gala, didn't he?" asked Gordon, playing along.

"Oh yeah, Casper said something about… an important shipment, back in the… Czech Republic." He had no idea where a name like 'Dolohov' would come from, but it was best to choose a small, obscure place so the scrutiny would be minimal. "Something about… oil refinery."

"Well, hopefully Mister Dolohov's shipment will help lower gas prices here," Gordon said with a chuckle. "Heaven knows we need it!"

Livvy was figuring out that running with a leg and arm cast was difficult.

She scooted down the hallway as fast as she could, using a crutch with her healthy arm to propel herself along. She looked back every once in a while with a happy smile before continuing doggedly forward. No _way_ was she going to let Nurse Jen find her. Hide-and-seek was her specialty.

The girl's broken limbs from the fire were healing quickly (she'd heard the doctors use the confusing phrase "the miracle of youth" a lot), but her spirit had recovered even faster. A few of the kinder nurses had taken it upon themselves to bring the shy little girl out of her timid shell, and they'd worked wonders. One would hardly recognize the confident spark in Olivia's eyes as she dodged passing nurses and doctors.

Finally she reached a suitable destination, the front lobby. There were _plenty_ of places to hide around here, especially if you were small. She'd never been more proud of her height. Then she let out an excited squeal on spotting someone and limped over to the familiar face. "Mr. Gordon, Mr. Gordon!" she cried, latching awkwardly onto his leg. "What're you doing here?"

Gordon felt something attach itself to his leg, and heard a little, familiar voice. Looking down, he saw little Olivia clinging to his leg. "Livvy!" he smiled, picking up the little girl and putting her in his lap. "Look at _you!_ You're doing _so_ much better after the fire!"

"Hello, Olivia," said Wayne with a friendly smile. Wayne loved children. He had never imagined having any of his own, but he did not see why he could not enjoy others' children.

"Are you supposed to be out of bed, Miss Olivia?" asked Gordon, taking the hand of the arm that was in the cast and holding it in his much larger hand, putting his other arm around the little girl's form. "You're going to get in trouble for being up, especially when you've got so much healing left to do!" He smiled at her, looking at her arm and leg, both in casts, then added, "But I won't tell if you won't. Okay?"

"Her nurse is going to kill you, Gordon," Wayne chuckled.

Gordon laughed as well. "Yeah, probably," he replied.

Olivia ducked her head when Wayne addressed her. "Hi, Mister Wayne," she said shyly, some of her old timidity coming back. She looked at Hale, curiosity apparent on her face, but figured that he wasn't important. Then she turned back to Gordon with a frown. "I'm better already, I don't know why they keep me in that room still...did you see me run all the way down here? Besides, Nurse Jen was the one who wanted to play hide-and-seek," she explained. "And she never said I couldn't leave the room..." Just then, Livvy's head jerked towards the hallway she'd just run from and her eyes grew wide. "Oops."

Her nurse was standing by the front desk, hands on her hips, looking more than a bit upset. She spotted the girl within moments and began stalking over to the little group.

Livvy scrambled immediately off of Gordon's lap and dove under his chair, "shh"-ing him quickly before tucking her head under her arms and then freezing.

Frowning at the interruption, Thomas watched the little girl hide under the chair and tucked the photo back into his pocket. Maybe he _had_ just recognized Dolohov from some business article. The car crash story made sense, and there was really nothing suspicious about the man's activities. But still, Thomas felt like he knew the guy from somewhere. He'd check Wayne's information once he got back home, maybe look for business partnerships with Wayne Enterprises. It couldn't be too hard to check; somehow he doubted that the Czech Republic had a lot of oil tycoons with the last name of "Dolohov."

And then there was the matter of the woman Wayne and Gordon had come to see. "A gunshot wound?" he asked, articulating clearly for the voice recorder's sake. "And you don't know if it's self-inflicted or attempted homicide? Why's the police getting involved at all? Seems pretty shaky to me." He blew out a sigh and shook his head. "I'd think the Joker and Crane cases would take chief importance right now. Unless, you know..." He paused at a sudden painful memory. "Maybe the police's priorities aren't as golden as they seem to be." _It certainly wouldn't be the first time,_ he added to himself, twisting his ring.

_Breath. In, out. In, out. There._

Todd's eye opened, letting in the blinding light. He rolled over, careful to put no weight on the right side of his face, and shielded himself from the bright sun. He'd _told_ the nurse to keep the damn curtains closed. The sunlight was really annoying.

Finally he sat up and went through his routine. He moved each part of his body, from his toes up to his eyebrows, making sure that nothing was numb. His doctor had instructed him to do it every morning. Apparently, the beam that had broken Livvy's wrist and leg had also hit his head, thankfully not fracturing his skull but leaving his central nervous system damaged. His reaction time had slowed noticeably, along with his general muscle movement. He even lost control of his muscles for short periods of time.

Not to mention...

He put a gentle hand over his right eye.

He really should be thankful he was still alive, Todd thought as he slowly pulled on some loose hospital pants and a shirt. The doctors had saved him from severe mental trauma, and cared for a few of the more severe burns on his hands from trying to drag Livvy out of the fire. Being left with as much as he had was a blessing. He scowled and fumbled with his eyepatch. The light bandages on his hands that covered up scarring were difficult to work around. Screw blessings. They didn't fucking exist.

Checking the clock, he realized that it was past the time he usually saw Olivia. Stupid nurse hadn't woken him _up_, either, he figured angrily. Were they _paid_ to be stupid? She probably thought he needed his rest or something. He carefully settled down into his temporary wheelchair (he refused to think of it as permanent; he'd get better, whether it took a week or a month) and rolled out into the hall. He'd been put in a room only a few down from his sister, so thankfully he didn't have to go far. Unfortunately, when he got there, the door was open and the girl was gone.

He snarled and turned the chair quickly, almost overturning it. Where had Livvy gone? Maybe the nurse had taken her around the halls for some exercise. He started off down the sterile halls, asking each nurse station along the way if anyone had seen his sister. They all reported that she'd headed to the front lobby a few minutes ago, and hadn't come back.

After what seemed like hours (he reminded himself forcefully that once he could walk easily again he'd be able to run the distance in half the time), he finally came out into the open front lobby. Sure enough, he saw his sister's nurse heading over to a group of people. One of the men's heads turned, and he groaned. It was Gordon. Todd hesitated for a minute, torn between seeing Livvy and having to talk to Gordon, and finally wheeled himself forward.

"Where could Olivia have disappeared to?" Gordon asked in an exaggerated questioning tone. "She was just here, but now she's gone! Have you seen her, Bruce?"

"I never saw her, Gordon!" Wayne replied, just as exaggerated. "You must be imagining things, there's no Olivia here."

"Gee, I guess you're right, Bruce," replied Gordon. "She must have just disappeared! How _does_ she do it?" Then he turned to Hale. "We're doing all we can to stop the Joker and Crane," he said sharply. "We think this shooting might be linked to - "

"Falcone stragglers," Wayne cut over him. "The Gotham police department is trying to sweep up any remnants from the last crime outburst before moving on to this one, to ensure the… old ways… don't… come back, while they're busy with other things."

"Precisely." Gordon nodded. "We're finishing taking out Falcone's ring before we move on the putting our full focus on Crane and the Joker."

"And besides, there's only one police official here," pointed out Wayne. "They're playing it safe. In case this is linked to Falcone, we've got one officer here, and he can quickly call in an investigation."

"Right." Gordon nodded again. Then he turned to Wayne. "You seem to know this case better than I do," he said with a smile.

"I actually listened when you _told_ me about it," Wayne replied.

"Really? I thought you were asleep," joked Gordon.

"I can listen in my sleep," Wayne replied. "Just ask Fox."

There was a long, awkward pause.

"I sleep in business meetings," Wayne clarified. "But I always manage to close the deal afterwards."

"Oh! Oh, okay, that's what I _thought_ you meant," said Gordon, but he seemed a little relieved to hear it anyways. Then he looked up, and a somewhat pained smile fixed itself on his face. "Oh," he said in an odd, not-quite-happy voice, "hi, Todd."

Wayne looked up as well to see the boy wheeling himself towards them. He looked terrible, especially with that dour scowl on his face. Even with her casts, Olivia always managed to look so healthy because of her sunshiney disposition, but Todd looked like something that had just been dragged in out of the rain. "Hey, Todd," Wayne said, trying to be friendly. He had the feeling that the boy would probably ignore him.

"You're looking much better, Todd," Gordon added, a little nervous. He paused. _Shit._ You're _looking_ better? How stupid could he be? "You seem to be getting much better," he said. "You used to be quite a sight for sore eyes." _Shut up, shut up._ "But it's really a good thing you didn't get more hurt than you did. Otherwise, they might not have been able to fix you up so nice. I guess it's all in the eye of the beholder." _Another _slip-up. Gordon bit his lip.

Wayne looked over at him, realizing his dilemma. He looked back at Todd awkwardly, then grinned uneasily at him. "Yeah," he said, in perhaps a little too friendly of a tone, "so… how about that Batman fella, huh? What a _nut_, right? Ha…"

Olivia giggled and stuck her head out from under the chair without thinking. "I'm right here, silly. I can't disappear, I'm not _Batman._" She went a bit starry-eyed; Batman was so _cool_. She wished she could see him again to say thank you. He'd gotten both her _and_ Todd out of the building before it collapsed. They owed him their lives.

"Olivia!" The girl winced and looked up at her nurse, who was frowning at her. "You're not supposed to be running around out here!"

Livvy shook her head mutinously. "Didn't hear you say that." Jen didn't reply, though, so the girl sighed and crawled out from the chair with an apologetic look. Then she caught sight of Todd, and her eyebrows knit together in worry. He had that _look_, the one that said he was going to explode. She'd seen it before.

It didn't seem the nurse had, though, because she followed Olivia's gaze. "Young man, you were told to stay in your room unless you were with someone!" she scolded. "I don't care if you can move yourself around, you need a guardian at all times!"

Todd's eye narrowed with each word, and he clenched the arms of his wheelchair until his knuckles were white. His eyes flashed to Wayne, Gordon, his sister, the nurse, and back to Wayne again. "A nut," he repeated slowly, anger boiling below the surface. Whether it was anger at Wayne for being such an idiot, or his sister for leaving without telling him, or the nurse for scolding him, or for this whole fucked-up situation, he didn't know, but it wanted _out_.

Well, he was always one to oblige.

"Yeah, a fucking nut. Too bad he didn't show up on time for that fire like a _real_ hero would have done. Then maybe all this shit wouldn't have happened." The nurse stood by, mouth gaping open. She seemed to be about to yell at him for cursing, but Olivia beat her to it.

"Todd, you're not supposed to talk like that," she said sadly, having finally struggled into a standing position. "And don't be mad at Batman, he helped us. He made sure we were okay."

"Okay? OKAY?!" Todd shouted. Livvy winced and looked down. "You think we're _okay_? _Look_ at yourself, Livvy," Todd said, throwing his arms out towards her. "You're covered in scars and bruises and burns, and you broke _two bones_ from that stupid fire."

"It's not so bad, Todd..." Olivia began, but Todd cut her off.

"Fine, then look at _me_!" He drew up the sleeve of his shirt to display an huge purple bruise spreading across his shoulder. "You call that _okay_, Livvy?" He let his shirt go and tore off the bandages on one hand, revealing a large, off-red discoloration stretching across the palm and back of his hand. "Is that _okay_ to you?" The girl's eyes were swimming with tears by this time, but Todd wasn't through. He reached up and yelled, "How about _this_?" He ripped the eye patch off of his head.

The skin around his eye socket was red and puffy, and bloody tissue rested where his eye should have been. Tears were pouring out his left eye as he jerked a finger at the mess. "Is this _o-kay_?!" Olivia's bottom lip was wobbling by now, and her tiny shoulders shaking. Todd dropped the eye patch and pushed forward in the chair until he was half-standing. "Some guy who thinks he's a goddamn superhero lets that happen to us, to _me_, and you're fucking _defending_ him?"

He breathed for a moment before pointing at the three men. When he started talking again, his voice was quieter, more ragged, almost choked. "People like them...people like _Batman_...don't really care about scum like us, get it?" He glared at Wayne. "As long as they can keep their pretty little homes and pretty little cars and keep living in their pretty little worlds, we could die, for all they care. And sure, they'll pretend to like you, and think you're cute, and spoil you, until they get bored, and then they'll just forget about you and move on. Because that's the way this fucked-up world works. Okay, Livvy?" He collapsed back into his chair and put his face in his hands.

Thomas wisely kept quiet throughout this exchange, and reached a shaky hand into his pocket to turn off the recorder.

There was a long silence. No one knew what to say. Wayne, especially, was in shock. He had gotten to the scene as soon as he had learned about it; there was no way he could have gotten there any faster. And he had saved the children's lives, even if they were a little battle-worn. But still this boy, this unhappy, ragged child, was saying that Batman was nothing more than a phoney - a flaunting idealist who liked to play with the oppressed people of Gotham like dolls, and tossed them away once their colours faded.

He did not know whether to be angry, or hurt. Then again, he reasoned, this boy was just speaking from the bitter point of view of someone who had just lost an important asset to them, and who knew that they would never look the same, and that people would never see them the same, and, most of all, that they would never see the world in the same way, ever again. He could not blame the boy for being bitter; but why did he have to have such a vehement objection to Batman? All Batman had ever done was try to help him.

"Batman saved your _life,_ son," Gordon said suddenly. Wayne looked up, surprised. He thought he would be the first to come to Batman's defence, since he was pretty much known as a criminal of sorts in Gotham. "He went into that burning building when our fire department couldn't, and he saved your life. I bet you didn't know," he went on, moving forward slightly in his chair, "_the Joker_ was also there, and he went up into that burning building. If Batman had not been there and had he not saved the two of you when he did, then you can bet the Joker would have killed you _both._" He nodded, satisfied with his explanation. "So you should be a little more _appreciative_ of what Batman does for you," he added, for good measure.

Wayne stared at him, then looked over at Todd. "And besides," he put in, "Batman doesn't do anything for profit. He just does what's right because it's right. And he never stops looking after the people of Gotham. Especially those who need to be looked after the most."

"He's a _saviour,_ really," Gordon said, nodding. "And it's a _shame_ that he's been _villainized_ the way he has. Batman never does anything but good. Even if his methods are a little _unorthodox,_ he still manages to help Gotham police department catch its criminals."

Wayne looked over at Gordon now. "As I'm sure he's doing all he can to help you catch Crane and the Joker," he said. "Even now."

Gordon nodded in agreement to this. "Even now," he repeated.

Todd looked between the two men for a long moment, then bent over and picked up his eye patch. He fastened it back onto his head and turned the wheelchair to leave. The nurse hurried over, but quickly backed off when he snarled "leave me _alone_" at her. He rolled to the hallway, then turned around for one last look.

"Maybe it would have been better if I'd been killed," he spat bitterly. A sudden movement caused Todd to look at Olivia. She had backed up a step, crying fully now, staring at Todd with wide eyes. He looked despairingly at the little girl for a second, then turned and swiftly wheeled back off to his room.

Livvy couldn't move, or hardly breathe. Why had Todd said that? He wished he was dead? Was it _her_ fault? She must have done something wrong. Something that made Todd so mad he wished he was dead, so he didn't have to see her any more. Maybe it was because of the fire. She looked blankly down at at her arms and legs; both were, as he'd pointed out before, a mass of bruises and scars. Todd had always called her his little cutie. Maybe now he didn't like her, now that she wasn't cute.

She didn't understand. She tucked her arm into her elbow and finally started sobbing.

Thomas tore his eyes away from the retreating boy when the girl started crying. "Maybe...maybe now's not the best time," he said, standing up and nodding his head at Gordon and Wayne. "I'll keep in touch." He spared one last concerned glance for Olivia, then walked out of the hospital.

"Ohh, _Livvy,_" Gordon's fatherly instinct snapped into gear and he got up from his seat, moving to the little girl and taking her in his arms. He remembered too well the days when his own daughter had been this young, and how she had gotten so upset about such little things, and he had always been able to calm her down and let her know it was all going to be all right. Wayne watched as the reporter got up and walked out with an awkward, mumbled explanation that it was 'not the best time'. Well, _that_ was the understatement of the year, Wayne thought. He looked back over at Gordon, watching the way he expertly dealt with the little girl. If Wayne ever had children, he wanted to be as good of a father as Gordon. Gordon was just the right mix of tough and gentle. Wayne wondered if he, Bruce Wayne, exerted any fatherly qualities at all; it was hard to imagine, but, he supposed, it was all in the eye of the beholder.

Gordon picked up Olivia and carried her, wrapping a warm, kindly arm around her little form, boosting her up into a sitting position in his arms, letting her cry on his shoulder. "Don't worry about it, Livvy," he told her, smiling gently. "Shh… everything's going to be okay. He's just mad. He doesn't mean it, really."

"_Everybody_ says things they don't mean sometimes, Livvy," Wayne said, looking up at her on Gordon's shoulder. "He's just saying those things because he's upset. He doesn't really mean it."

"Shh, Livvy, don't cry," Gordon said, rocking slightly back and forth, calming Olivia. "Everything's going to be all right. I_ promise_."

"Here, Olivia," Wayne said, standing up and taking off his Rolex. He held it out for the little girl to take. "A present for you. To remind you that everything's going to be okay."

Gordon stared at the exchange in shock, then looked up at Wayne with wide, surprised eyes. "Are you sure it's okay to give her that?" he asked.

Wayne shrugged. "I've got plenty," he said with a smile.

Gordon raised his eyebrows, grinning back. Then he looked down at Olivia again. "Look at that nice shiny watch. Now you can always know what time it is." He looked back up at Wayne, smiling. "Hey, if I break _my_ arm, will you give _me_ one?" he asked jokingly, in just above a whisper so Olivia would not hear him.

Wayne chuckled. "If you'll dress up in a little frilly hospital dress to get it," he answered teasingly.

Livvy's shoulders stopped shaking after a moment and she pushed her head into Gordon's collarbone. This was weird, she thought. She'd never been held like a daughter before. Her dad had never been around to do it, and her mom...she shivered and snuggled further into Gordon's shoulder.

She finally looked up at Wayne. She blinked, looked down at the watch, and then looked up again, smiling. "Thank you _very_ much, Mr. Wayne, but..." She pushed the watch away. "I don't think Todd would be very happy about that." _Because he'd either throw it away or try to sell it,_ she thought sadly. It was hard to understand her brother sometimes.

She took a breath and sighed. "I'm really, really sorry about what he said," she told them apologetically. "Todd..." She paused. She wasn't really sure how to say this. "We had to be by ourselves a lot, when we were little. Even our mom didn't help us with _anything_. So, I think that when you guys came along and tried to help us, even though you didn't know us..." She stopped again and frowned. "Maybe he didn't understand that. I mean, he's always just taken care of me and him...er, him and me..." She shook her head in confusion, and just went on. "Maybe he was...scared." It was hard to imagine her big brother being scared of anything.

But then Olivia remembered the night a few weeks ago that their mom, who was drunk, had tried to hurt her, and Todd had been away. He'd gotten back just in time to stop her, but Livvy had later found him sitting on his bed, arms wrapped around his legs and head tucked into his knees. He was crying. She'd asked what was wrong, and he'd simply replied, "She could have _hurt_ you, Liv. And it would have been my fault." Now, she understood a little more what he'd meant.

She realized that she wasn't finished. "So he decided to trust you, back when we first met. And with Todd, if you do something bad to him, even if you didn't really do it and he _thinks_ you did it..." She shook her head sadly. Then her mouth opened up wide in a yawn, and she settled her head back down on Gordon's shoulder.

Wayne took the watch back from the little girl, a little taken aback, but slipped it back onto his wrist without a word. If she thought her brother would be offended by the watch in any way, he did not want to risk it. It seemed a little strange to be offended by a watch, especially such a nice one, but Wayne did not know how the children worked; maybe it was something only the two of them knew. He decided to push the thought from his mind and instead smiled as he watched little Olivia fall fast asleep on Gordon's shoulder. "Cute," he commented.

Gordon glanced down at the little girl, then smiled. "They always do that," he told Wayne. "Strenuous stuff wears them out real easy."

"Me, too," Wayne said with a grin. "Is she really out?"

"Like a light," Gordon replied.

Wayne jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the way Fox had disappeared to. "I'm gonna go in and see Jessica," he said. He checked his watch, then looked back up at Gordon. "Are you gonna wait for Maria, or…?"

"I'll wait," said Gordon. "If she doesn't come in the next few minutes, though, I'm coming in."

Wayne nodded. "Sounds good," he said. Then he slipped his hands into his pockets and walked away towards Jessica's hospital room.

Gordon turned back around, facing the hospital entrance, holding Olivia gently on his shoulder, making sure not to wake her. "Where _are_ you, Maria?" he asked quietly.


	22. Chapter TwentyOne

Rachel opened her eyes to find herself tied to a chair.

The room she sat in was dark, grey, and smelled of gasoline. She did a breathing exercise to stop herself from having something like a panic attack, then looked around the room, taking in every detail. The room was full of oil drums and the lights hanging from the ceiling were cheap and outdated, some of them broken or burned-out. She guessed she must have been in an old storage-house or something, because of all the oil barrels.

She tried to think back to what had happened, but her brain was all fuzzy. She had been with Harvey, and then she had gone out to her car…

"Good morning, sunshine."

The Joker.

He had made her drive to some abandoned road in some backstreets part of Gotham, and then… her mind was blank. He must have knocked her out, because the next thing she knew, she was here. Napier walked around in front of her and stared down at her with a grin, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet. He still had that bizarre, unpleasant mixture of smells about him. Rachel wrinkled up her nose.

"You've been drinking," Rachel said with disdain.

"Uh, _no_," Napier replied pointedly. "I just haven't bathed since the _last_ time I went out drinking." He sat down on an oil barrel in front of her, licking his lips and pulling a knife from his sleeve, and placed it precariously under her chin. She lifted her head, trying not to get cut.

"You know, there are better ways," she said, tense. "There are better solutions… to take out your frustration than drinking and killing people."

"You know, you're right," he said in that amused, nasal tone of voice. "There _are_ better solutions. In fact, I've been thinking about that a lot lately. I even made a list. Here, let me get it out for you…" He patted his pockets. "Now, where'd I put that list?" he asked himself, more for show than an actual inquiry. "Oh, yeah." He looked back at her. "I burned it."

He snickered at this, pulling out his knife again and placing it under her chin, staring into her face. "No, but in all seriousness…" He stopped again, grinned, and then started laughing. Then he took a sharp breath and cleared his throat. "Really, though," he said, licking his lips, "I've been giving that some thought, and, uh, I've come up with a number of things I can do other than that to get out all this… _pent-up frustration I feel_." He said these last words with the exaggerated tone of a faux psychiatrist. "And you know, I'm really glad I did. Because I find that life is so much more enjoyable when you're _sober_ enough to _enjoy_ it."

"That's good," Rachel said, her voice quivering. "I'm glad you're doing better…"

"Are you? Are you _really?_" He jabbed the knife a little closer to her throat. "Or are you just saying that because you think that sucking yourself up to me might increase your chances of being let go? Hmm?" He grinned at her, watching her face, then, moistening his tongue against the roof of his mouth, his eyes moved away in an arch, as if he were thinking of something to say. Then he looked back at her. "Would you like to know how I got my scars?" he asked.

"Um…" Rachel started, but he did not wait for her to answer.

"When I was younger - maybe five, six years ago, now - I was married to this girl, her name was Kitty." He wet his lips. "Now, Kitty and I had an interesting relationship, because we had never really wanted to get married, we were just kind-of a fling, as it were… but then, circumstances went haywire and Kitty got pregnant, so we got married." He waved it off, "Something about preserving her dignity, or her parents insisting on it, or something… it wasn't really important. Anyways, we lived together, and we didn't really have much of a relationship… Kitty was a prostitute, I was a blue-collar worker, we paid the bills together."

He wet his lips again, looking away, thinking, then looked back at her. "Well, after a couple of months, Kitty's starting to show pretty much. I mean, _I _still think she's sexy, but apparently she can't get as many customers when they can clearly see that she's… y'know." He made an awkward indicative movement with his hand. "_Pregnant._ So she starts getting all worried that her manager - her _pimp,_ if you will - is going to start getting suspicious or angry and take it out on her. So I take a second job, and the earnings for that job go to this manager character."

His tongue flashed out, wetting his lips again. "Well, pretty soon, Kitty's well into the third trimester, and she can't get any customers _at all_, and my two jobs just aren't enough to pay all the bills and her manager. So one day, I come to the house, and there he is, and he's threatening her. He's got this… cane," he held up his free hand as if holding a cane over her. "And he's threatening her. So I said, 'hey, you fucker, why don't you take on somebody your own size?' _Well._" He blinked slowly, thinking. "Let's just say he was _not_ my size. This was a big, big guy. I mean, I was scared of him, and I'm six-one, one-eighty… now you know," he added, licking his lips. "So this guy turns, and he comes for me, and he says, 'who the fuck are you?' and I was surprised, but I told him, 'well, I'm her husband.'"

A strange grin crossed his face. "Well, he was _not_ happy to hear that," he said. "Apparently, he didn't know that Kitty was married. So he takes the cane, and he comes for me, and he says, 'so you did this to her, huh? You made her unable to work! You horny bastard… I'll kill you! Do you know how much money you lost me?!'" He wet his lips. "Well, I wasn't just gonna stand there and let him batter me. I ran. I ran into the kitchen, and I got a knife. And he comes into the kitchen after me with the cane, and I swiped for him, and I got him, I cut him real bad across the shoulder. So he takes the cane, and he smashes my hand against the counter with it, and I drop the knife. Well, I had to, my hand was broken."

He frowned in retrospect. "And he picks up the knife, and he pins me to the counter with the cane in one hand, then he takes the knife, and he holds it over me… and he says, 'Look at what you've done, you stupid asshole! You lost me one of my best broads! Nobody wants to fuck a mommie. Are you happy now? Huh? You better be fuckin' happy now, because you're the only one!'"

His eyes strayed again, and he put a hand to his scars. "Then he takes the knife, and he cuts open both sides of my face, like this… and then he says, 'there, now you're happy. Now you're fuckin' smiling.' Then he lets go of me. Well, I was bleeding like hell, but I didn't have time to do anything, because next thing I know, he drags Kitty into the kitchen, and he holds her, and he says, 'now you're gonna know what it feels like to lose something.' And he… takes his cane," Napier raised his arm, as if holding the cane, "and he… swings, and he hits Kitty in the back of the head with it. And she falls to the floor, and blood… starts pooling around her head." He paused here, faltering. "I was… helpless," he said. "He left, and I was already losing blood fast, and I couldn't stop him, because my vision was starting to swim… so I called the hospital, and the ambulances came…"

He paused again, taking a deep breath and wetting his lips. "I later found out, right after we left the house, that guy and his… _buddies,_ had come by the house and burned it to the ground. Just for spite." He shook his head. "And then, in the hospital, after they stitched me up, I asked about Kitty…" He stopped again, looking away. "And they told me she and the baby didn't make it."

He stared at the ground for a long time, not moving, hardly seeming to breathe. Rachel watched him. She had never imagined that she could feel pity for a person like this, like this maniac, this… Joker. But now that she knew, now that she knew what had turned him into the kind of person he was today, she found that she could not hate him for what he had done. She bit her lip. She did not know whether to speak, or to stay silent. "I'm…" she started faintly, hesitant. "…Sorry."

Napier took a deep breath, staring at the floor, then turned and looked at Rachel. "So, you see, you can't really know what you're dealing with… until you know the whole story." He swallowed, watching her face. "And now I'm going to have to kill you, because I told you." He stood, putting the knife against her throat. "Any last words, Rachel?" he asked.

"Harvey… won't let you get away with this!" Rachel said, her voice strained.

Napier looked surprised for a moment, then pulled the knife away from her throat. "_Harvey,_ huh?" he asked. "Harvey, as in, Harvey _Dent?_" He grinned. "Well," he said slowly, "let's just see if Harvey Dent… will live up to your threat."

. . .

Dent was asleep when the phone on his bedside table started ringing. He moaned, stretching his sturdy arms above his head, then glanced over at the caller ID and smiled when he saw Rachel's name. He picked up the phone, pressed the Speak button, and said with a sleepy smile, "Hello, beautiful."

"Hello, honey."

Dent froze. That was not Rachel's voice. He slowly sat up in bed, trying to keep his breathing and voice normal and steady. "Who is this?" he asked gravely. "Where's Rachel?"

"Oh, Rachel's fine," the person on the other end replied with a chuckle. "Here, I'll let you talk to her."

Dent gripped the phone tightly as the line switched hands. Then Rachel's voice came across the line, scared. "Harvey?" she asked, her voice shaking. "Harvey, I'm in trouble."

"What? What kind of trouble?!" Dent demanded. "Rachel, _where are you?_"

"I… I can't tell you yet," she said, her voice broken by repressed sobs. "I… I can just tell you that I'm in trouble. I'm being held -" her voice cut off as whoever it was on the other end took the phone back.

"She's being held hostage," he said in a slow, lilting voice. "By me." He giggled sadistically at this, and Dent's blood ran cold at the sound. "And you have… mm… I'm gonna give you twenty minutes to get down here. If you come even one second later…" He was silent for a moment. Dent listened hard, but the man on the other end said nothing. Dent held the phone closer to his ear, trying to see if the man on the other end was whispering…

_"BOOM!!"_

Dent jumped, dropping the phone. Even from its spot on the floor, he could hear the psychopath on the other end cracking up. He picked the phone back up, putting it back to his ear. "Now listen, you -" he started, but the man on the other end cut over him, "No, _you_ listen. I've got your girl, and therefore I hold all the cards. You… you've got nothing. Now, I'm going to call you back in fifteen minutes to tell you where Rachel is -"

"Fifteen minutes?!" Dent exclaimed. "That only gives me five minutes to get there!"

"Well, _yeah,_ if you're totally_ inept,_" the amused monotone on the other end of the line answered. "But try using deductive reasoning. I mean, there aren't _that_ many places in Gotham that you can _explode_ people in." He paused. "No, no, scratch that," he corrected himself, "there are a lot."

"What am I supposed to _do?_" Dent asked frantically. "What do you _want?_"

"Personally? To blow Rachel here to kingdom come." He sounded totally at ease with the statement. "But I'm willing to give up my own personal interests for yours. You can run to the police, call Batman, run to the neighbours, whatever it is you do… just know that you've only got twenty minutes. And the clock is ticking." He paused again, then said in a high, amused tone, "See ya, sweetie!" Then he hung up.

Dent stood staring at the phone, his mind numb. Twenty minutes. That was all he had until Rachel went up in flames. He quickly yanked on his clothes, grabbing his cell phone and keys, and headed down for his car. He needed to talk to someone who had had plenty of run-ins with the Joker, and knew how he worked.

If anyone could help him with this, it was Jim Gordon.

. . .

Maria was sitting in the parking lot doing some mental prep.

Gordon's message had been more than vague. "Something pivotal to the Crane case"? She somehow got the feeling that Bruce Wayne was involved; Gordon was usually pretty precise with his information. So this tip could be anything at all.

Disregarding that, though, she was (she checked her watch) now almost twenty minutes late. She sighed and climbed out of her car. She'd finally settled in at the hotel room the police force had so kindly put her up in, and hadn't bothered changing into nice clothes for this. She wore her usual jeans, that still smelled a faint bit like fire, and a ruffled green top. Something told her that Gordon and Wayne wouldn't care. It didn't matter to her, of course.

Well, nothing really did anymore, except for finding Napier and Crane.

She found Gordon in the lobby with Olivia in his arms. Maria's eyes softened at the sight of the little girl. Livvy was definitely getting better, but she still bore obvious signs of the fire. Maria wondered about Todd, who she had seen only once before he slammed the door to his hospital room in her face. She'd caught sight of burns on his hands, though, and some sort of bandage over his eye.

Her attention turned back to Gordon and Olivia. "Hey," she said, nodding to the man. "Sorry I'm late, traffic was horrible." She looked at Olivia, who appeared to be fast asleep, then back at Gordon. "Have you seen Todd lately?"

. . .

The tires of Dent's car screeched to a halt in front of the Gotham police department. He checked his watch. _Only seventeen minutes left… _He dashed inside, throwing open the doors, and gaped around at all the surprised faces of the policemen inside. "Where's Officer Gordon?!" he demanded. "I need Officer Gordon! It's an emergency!"

The police exchanged glances, then looked back at him, shaking their heads. "Officer Gordon isn't here," a female officer told him.

"What?!" Dent exclaimed, almost tearing out his hair in frustration. "He's… then where the hell _is_ he?!"

"Please, just try to calm down, sir," another one of the policemen said to him.

"_CALM DOWN?!_" Dent shrieked. "THIS IS A MATTER OF LIFE AND DEATH! I NEED OFFICER GORDON _NOW!_ WHERE IS HE?! CAN SOMEONE GET IN CONTACT WITH HIM?!"

"I think I might know where Officer Gordon is," another officer offered timidly. Dent instantly turned on him, and he cowered away.

"Where?!" Dent demanded. "_SPEAK,_ MAN!"

"The hospital!" the policeman exclaimed, terrified. "He called asking about a young woman's number, and mentioned he was going to Gotham General -"

"Gotham General," Dent repeated, breathless, turning and running out of the police department. All of the officers exchanged confused glances.

"That was _Harvey Dent,_" the female officer said.

"I wish I'd asked for an autograph," another officer said.

"He probably wouldn't have given it to you," a third officer reasoned. "You saw him. He was ballistic."

"Wonder what the deal is?" the female officer mused.

There was a long silence. Then one of the officers held up a box. "Doughnuts, anyone?"

Dent ran out to his car, checking his watch. _Sixteen minutes…_ He ripped open the door, quickly got inside, and started the car. He screeched out of the parking lot, heading towards Gotham General. If Gordon was there, Dent did not care how important what he was doing, he was going to drag him away from it to help him save Rachel.

Just then, the sound of a siren reached his ears and he looked into his rear-view mirror to see flashing lights right behind him. Of course he was speeding, he thought. He pressed his foot onto the accelerator. The more police attention he got for this, the better. Plus, he was not about to stop for breaking the speed limit when he had such limited time to get Officer Gordon and save Rachel.

"Fall in line, gentlemen," he said as another police cruiser joined the chase. "Everybody seems to want _a piece of Harvey Dent _lately. Well, _fall in line_."

. . .

Napier paced slowly back and forth, every so often checking the clock on Rachel's cell phone, then going back to pacing back and forth, sometimes skipping, humming random, somewhat out-of-tune fragments of show tunes. Rachel watched him, back and forth, biting her lip. She wanted to say something, but she was not sure if it would be wise to do so. Finally, she asked, "That story you told me, about Kitty… was that true?"

Napier stopped pacing and turned to look at her, his lips puckered slightly in a demeaning, thoughtful way. He raised what had once been his eyebrows, watching her. "It depends," he said, wetting his lips. "Which one did I tell you?"

Rachel frowned, taken aback. "There's more than one?" she asked, confused.

Napier shrugged and went back to pacing and skipping. "There's always more than one way to tell a story," he said. "It just depends on who's _asking_ and who's _telling._" He turned to her. "For example," he said, moistening his tongue against the roof of his mouth, "if I were to tell the story of how you got here today, I could say, you got in your car after a _rousing_ round of sex with Gotham's most _dashing_ District Attorney…" Rachel blushed at this. "…and you found a stranger in your backseat. Now, it's all the same up to here." He lifted a finger, almost instructional, in a way. "But here is where it ends."

He held up another finger. "For example, I could say I told you where to drive and held a knife to your throat to make sure you got there." He opened one palm to one side. "Or, on the other hand, I could say that you drove here by yourself. Which is also true. I was not helping you drive the car in any way."

"You told me where to go," Rachel argued.

"And where in the law does it put a penalty on backseat drivers?" Napier asked.

"You had a knife to my throat," Rachel reminded him.

"A minor detail," Napier waved it off. "But, I could also say, you drove the car… and _you_ held _me_ at knifepoint."

"That's a lie!" Rachel exclaimed.

"Is it?" Napier asked, holding up his hands. "There was a knife, and one of the ends was definitely pointed at _me._ Therefore, I was at knifepoint. It doesn't really matter _which_ end of the knife was pointed at me… all that matters was that it _was._"

"So you twist a story until it suits you?" Rachel asked.

"Uh, _no._" Napier said, clasping his gloved hands together and sitting down on an oil barrel in front of her. "I just lie my ass off because it amuses me."

"You're kidding, right?" Rachel scoffed, looking him up and down.

"Why should I be? You should try it sometime. It's lots of fun." He grinned at her, wetting his lips. He was silent for a long moment. "You don't understand me," he finally said, leaning forward towards her. "But I understand you. You are a simple human being to figure out."

"Yeah? And how is that?" Rachel asked, suddenly defensive. She did not like to think of herself as easy to read. Easy to read was often mistaken for other kinds of 'easy', which Rachel was not.

Napier blinked slowly, his eyes seeming to roll back in his head, then opened them again, staring Rachel down. "You like security," he said. "But you also like adventure." He held out both his hands, palms-up. "On the one hand, you've got Harvey Dent, who's nice… dashing… dependable… and _oh my god boring._" He looked at his other palm. "And on the other hand, you've got Bruce Wayne, who's… got a lot of money." He put his hands together. "And somewhere in the middle… you've got Batman." He looked up at her, grinning. "Oh, don't think I don't know about you and the caped crusader," he told her in a droll monotone. "It's oh-so-obvious that you and the Bat have eyes for each other."

"That's a lie," said Rachel, uncomfortable. "I don't like Batman. He's a nut!"

"Like _me_," Napier said with a grin. "And I was _married,_ once."

"But I bet you didn't wear _clown makeup_ to your wedding," Rachel retorted.

Napier leaned back, looking at her with that same contemptuous, full-lipped stare, then slapped his knees and stood, going back to pacing. He hummed a slightly off-tune bar of Angel of Music, checking the time on the cell phone. "Fourteen minutes!" he said in a sing-song voice.

. . .

Gordon smiled at Maria as she came into the hospital. "Maria," he sighed. "It's good to see you. We were starting to worry. Come on." Still carrying Olivia in his arms, he started towards the room where Jessica was being kept, trusting Maria to follow. When he got there, Bruce Wayne looked up at the two of them with a tight smile. Gordon nodded to Fox. "Hey," he said, a bit awkwardly. He had never really been a close associate of Mister Fox's, and he was not sure he was welcome in the room. Having Olivia in his arms really helped, though.

Jessica looked up at the baby and smiled. "She's so cute," she said softly. "Is she yours?"

"Oh, no, ma'am," Gordon said with a slightly embarrassed chuckle. "No, she's a stray."

"She's a sweetheart," Jessica said, nodding. Then she turned her head back towards Fox. "Is this everyone who's coming?" she asked.

"Yes," Fox said, nodding. He took her hand in his, then looked up at Wayne. "She's just woken up from a nap," he explained. "She'll probably be out again in a couple of minutes, so it would be best if you asked all your questions now."

Wayne nodded. "Right. Right." Then he looked up at Gordon. "Any questions, Gordon?"

"Yeah, uh, I have… a couple," he said, shifting Olivia's weight in his arms. "You, uh, your… _injury,_" he trod carefully around the issue, "was inflicted with a gun at close range."

Jessica nodded. "That's right," she said. "He held it to my head, right between my eyes."

Fox cringed.

"Right, uh, ma'am," Gordon said, still somewhat uncomfortable about the whole situation, "but, uh, what I was wondering was, um… did you happen to see your attacker?"

Jessica's eyes widened. "How could I _not_ see him?" she asked, her tone horrified.

"Who was it?" asked Wayne, perhaps a little too eagerly. Fox looked over at him, then back at Jessica, who was staring at him in interest.

"Mister Wayne," she said with a smile. "My word. I never thought I'd see the day when Bruce Wayne would come to pay me a personal visit." She shook her head with a chuckle. "I'll be." Then she turned to Fox. "Did you ask him to come, Lucius?" she asked, squeezing his hand.

Fox raised his eyebrows and shook his head with an odd grin. "Uh, _no,_ actually," he said, "Mister Wayne _asked_ to come."

Jessica looked back at Wayne. "Well, wasn't that _considerate_ of you," she said.

"Um, ma'am, I'm sorry to interrupt," Gordon put in awkwardly, "but it would be really helpful if you could tell us… who shot you."

Once again, Jessica's face turned to the cold, blank, scared look of before. "Oh, I think you know who it was," she said in a grave tone.

Gordon and Wayne exchanged glances. "Was it… Doctor Crane?" asked Wayne.

"The Devil himself," agreed Jessica, nodding. "I've spent enough years under Doctor Crane to know what kind of person he really is, under that cold, superficial, iron-pressed surface."

"That's what we were kind-of leaning towards," Gordon admitted, nodding.

"He'll take a perfectly normal patient and torture their mind until they're nothing but a screaming lunatic," she went on in a low voice. "I've seen it happen. I've seen him do it, and then come out smiling. He'll take advantage of his patients, too. You wouldn't believe the number of beautiful young women who end up hopelessly insane because they refused to comply to his wishes. He's a monster, I tell you. A monster."

"Uh, Jess," Fox said quietly, reaching down to his hand, "you're cutting off my circulation."

Jessica looked over at him in surprise and let go of his hand. "I'm sorry, Lucius," she said, looking up at him. "I didn't realize I was doing it." Then she looked up at Gordon and Wayne again, and her expression seemed to have cleared. "Was that all you gentlemen wanted to know?" she asked, in a rather lighter tone, though Wayne could tell that it was a front. There was something she still had not told them about Crane… and they needed to know what it was.

Gordon opened his mouth to ask another question when the doors of the room came banging open and Harvey Dent, dishevelled and panting, came bursting through. "Gordon!" he exclaimed when he saw him. Gordon looked over in shock as Dent was suddenly grabbed from behind by a group of policemen and his hands were cuffed behind his back. "GORDON!" Dent shouted, struggling with the policemen. "Gordon, you have to help me! It's Rachel - _Rachel's in trouble!_"

"Rachel?! What kind of trouble?!" Wayne instantly stepped forward. Gordon put out a hand, stopping him.

"What's the matter, Harvey?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

"The Joker - _the Joker has Rachel!_" Dent thrashed against the policemen who were trying to restrain him. "He has her, and he's going to kill her if I don't find where he's got her and rescue her before the time is up! YOU HAVE TO HELP ME, GORDON!"

"Harvey, just calm down," Gordon said, putting up a hand. "Okay, now, the Joker has Rachel, and you don't know where?"

"HE'S GONNA KILL HER, GORDON!" Dent screamed, fighting with all his might against the policemen who were holding him. "HE'S GONNA KILL HER IN SIX MINUTES!" He tried to wrench himself free from the policemen, but they held him firmly, his hands cuffed behind his back.

Gordon looked around frantically, and finally his gaze landed on Maria. "Here…" he said, awkwardly transferring Olivia to her arms, "take care of her, please."

"GODDAMN IT!" roared Dent, thrashing violently against the policemen, "LET - ME - GO!!"

As he struggled, his phone fell out of his breast pocket onto the floor. Then it started to ring.

A hush fell over the room. The phone rang again.

Finally, Bruce Wayne moved forward, picked it up, and opened it. Putting it to his ear, he took a deep breath.

"Hello?" he asked.

"Hello, darling."

Wayne frowned, glancing over at Dent. "Excuse me?" he asked.

"This _is_ Harvey Dent, isn't it?" the lilting voice asked. "I certainly hope so, because if it isn't, Harvey Dent's girlfriend's life now rests in whoever's hands it _is_."

"No, no, this is Harvey… Dent," said Wayne, a bit awkwardly. Dent stared at him, his eyes bloodshot with nerves, his blond hair falling unceremoniously in his face. "Who is _this?_"

"Oh, I think you _know_ who this is," the voice replied, amused. "And I think you know why I'm calling. Have you got a pen and paper? I'm only going to say this once." Wayne frantically motioned for a pad and pen, and one of the policemen pulled out his ticket-writing pad and pen and handed it to him. Wayne poised, ready to write. "We're in the old docking facility, in the Narrows," the voice said. "You might remember it as the place where Falcone and Crane's drugs were split up after shipment."

"Yeah," said Wayne, writing. Then he looked up, frowning. "The question is, how do _you_ know that?"

"Oh, I know _everything,_" the voice replied. "_Mister Wayne._"

Wayne felt his stomach drop.

"This is your five-minute warning. Or, rather, Harvey Dent's five-minute warning, since it's his girlfriend." The man on the other end chuckled. "The clock is ticking, and Rachel's time is almost up. Make sure he gets the _memo_." And with that, he hung up.

Wayne took the phone slowly away from his ear. Then he turned to Gordon, shutting the phone. "They're in the Narrows," he said. "Something about the dock… Falcone's drug drop-off spot?"

"I know the place. Found it after following Flass once," Gordon nodded, taking the pad and staring at the writing. "Okay, we'll get a team on it straightaway."

"Wait wait - what about _me?!_" Dent exclaimed, frantic. "What - you can't leave without me! I have to save Rachel - I HAVE TO SAVE HER!" He fought against the policemen holding him again. "LET GO OF ME, I HAVE TO SAVE HER!" he shouted. One of the policemen holding Dent pulled something from his belt and, trying hard not to get clobbered by the district attorney's frantic stuggling, pressed it to Dent's neck. Dent jolted once, then his eyelids grew heavy and he slumped forward, limp. The policeman held up his tazer, staring down at Dent.

"Doesn't look like he'll be saving _anyone_ today," the policeman said with a sigh of relief.

Gordon frowned. "I'm on it," he said. "We only have five minutes to get to the Narrows." He checked his watch. "We'll have to speed."

"Or we'll need Batman," Wayne said.

Gordon looked over at him. Then he started for the hospital entrance. "I'm not taking my chances with Batman," he called back to Wayne, letting himself out.

Wayne watched him with a deep frown. "No," he said under his breath, "but _I_ am."

Maria followed Gordon into the room with a sigh, only half-relieved that he'd accepted her lie so easily. It wasn't traffic that had made her late. In fact, it had taken her a long, long time to decide whether to come at all. In the end, she figured that a lead to Crane might be a lead to Napier. And even a slight chance was worth it.

Her eyebrows raised when she saw who was lying on the bed. _Jessica?_ She clearly remembered the woman as the director of Arkham. And apparently, Jessica had been shot by Crane. That was confusing, she thought. From what she'd seen during her encounters with the guy, Crane wasn't one to shoot someone for fun. Revenge, maybe. But she couldn't imagine him going back to Arkham just to get back at Jessica.

So he must have had a motive to have returned. What was it? Maria watched Jessica's face. The woman was obviously hiding something. She opened her mouth to ask.

She was distracted when Harvey Dent burst into the room. She watched the proceedings with minimal interest until she heard him yell something about the Joker. Her blood turned to ice. _Finally,_ she thought, clenching her fists. This was her chance to get back at that sadistic bastard.

But it seemed it was not to be, because right then Olivia was pushed into her arms. She stared with angry eyes at Gordon. "You're joking." He didn't reply, but simply rushed out of the room. Maria gritted her teeth in frustration, looked around at the police officers, and handed the little girl off quickly to one of them. "Watch her," she commanded, before following Gordon at a sprint.

He probably wouldn't take too well to the idea of her coming along, so Maria decided to say nothing. She hopped into her car and revved the engine, then sped out of the parking lot in pursuit of Gordon's cruiser.


	23. Chapter TwentyTwo

"Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens…" Napier checked the clock on Rachel's cell phone. "Bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens…" He looked up to the ceiling, listening for any approaching vehicles or other indicative noises of a rescue effort. Then he looked over at Rachel, pursing his lips. "It looks like no one's coming to save you," he told her.

"Harvey's still got time," Rachel argued.

Napier checked her cell phone. "Two minutes," he told her. He looked up at her again, unsmiling. "He probably got lost," he said, wetting his lips. "What _is_ it with men and asking for directions?"

"Harvey _will_ come," Rachel insisted. "I _know _he will. He wouldn't let me die. It's not _like_ Harvey, he's a good man."

"Well, sometimes bad things happen to good people," Napier said with a sigh. Then he looked up at her with a grin. "Like you," he added. He looked back at the cell phone. "One minute and counting," he said. He listened for the sound of any approaching cars, then, hearing none, he turned back to Rachel, stashing her cell phone in his pocket. "Well, it looks like no one's coming to save you after all," he told her, wetting his lips again.

"No," she said, shaking her head vehemently, "no, Harvey will come!"

"In thirty seconds?" Napier scoffed. "He'd have to be…" He paused, thinking, then looked at Rachel with a surprised, but not wholly unsatisfied, look. "He'd have to be _Batman_ to do that."

Rachel frowned, surprised. "What?" she asked.

"Oh, come on, don't tell me the thought hasn't crossed your mind before," Napier said, crouching down in front of her, moistening his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I mean, you, of all people, would probably know if Harvey Dent was really running around in a_ bat suit_ in his spare time." His eyes rolled to the ceiling as he thought about it. "Fighting crime by day and… fighting crime by night." He looked back at Rachel. "Don't tell me you didn't put two and two together before," he said.

"You're crazy," Rachel spat.

"Save it for the courtroom, doll face," Napier said flatly, getting back to his feet. "You might get me out of some jail time." He moved away from her and reached behind one of the oil barrels, picking up a canister of oil.

"You won't get away with this!" Rachel told him, struggling against her bonds. "Even if you kill me, they know where you are, and they'll get you!"

"Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens…" He opened up the canister of oil and began pouring it out onto the floor around Rachel's chair as she watched in horror. "Bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens…" He started splashing Rachel with the oil, and she cringed.

"Stop that!" she exclaimed, turning away. He chuckled at her reaction, pulling a metal lighter out of his pocket.

"Seeing an end to your pitiful flings…" He clicked open the lighter, and the little flame danced into life. He grinned at her, maliciously. "These are a few of my favourite things!"

Napier held out the lighter, ready to drop it into the oil, when suddenly, he felt his wrist grabbed by a strong hand. He looked up in surprise to see Batman standing there, glaring at him.

"Those," Batman said viciously, "aren't the lyrics."

Gordon quickly pulled up to the old docking facility, swiftly parking and jumping out of his squad car as other squad cars pulled up behind him. He did not even notice Maria's car pulling up alongside some of the other squadron cars as he raced towards the building. He stopped in front of the entrance, pulling out his walkie-talkie. "We need units, units surrounding the building!" he shouted into the unit, "we have the Joker treed, we need to get this place surrounded! Get sharp-shooters and all units down here! We're at the old docking facility in the Narrows! I repeat, _the old docking facility in the Narrows!_"

He panted, staring up at the building, then checked his watch. "Shit," he hissed. They only had seconds before the Joker was supposed to kill Rachel. Gordon was almost certain Rachel Dawes was a goner, but he was determined that at least some good would come of this operation. If they could catch the Joker, then it would almost be worth it. Gordon was fond of Rachel, but he had to think for the greater good now.

He checked his watch, then covered his ears, expecting some kind of explosion…

But none came.

Gordon hesitated, uncertain of what had just happened, then uncovered his ears and looked up at the old building. There was something terribly wrong here. The Joker had an insatiable taste for pyrotechnics; it made no sense that he would do something as simple as slitting Rachel's throat. But, then again, maybe he had become desperate. Gordon did not want to believe that Rachel was dead, but, as he checked his watch again, he realized that it was past the time the Joker said he would kill the girl.

"All units, we've got a dangerous fugitive and a Schrodinger's cat inside the building," he said into his walkie-talkie. Then, unsure whether his units would understand, he clarified, "A killer and a hostage, not sure if the hostage is alive or not. Send over units immediately." He let down the walkie-talkie, then turned to look at the units that had already gathered. He was shocked when he saw Maria there, then his look of surprise turned into a dark scowl.

"Maria?" he said, "What are you doing here? You could get hurt! You shouldn't be here, it's dangerous!" Just then, one of the windows of the old warehouse exploded in a show of shattering glass and a roaring tongue of flame. Gordon stared up at the wreckage in horror, then got back on his walkie-talkie, "All units, there's been an incident! Fugitive has firepower! I repeat, _fugitive has firepower!_" He turned back to Maria, pleading. "Go home, Maria!" he begged. "I don't want you to get hurt!" Then he turned back to the building, running back towards the entrance. "I'm going in!" he shouted into his walkie-talkie.

Napier's grin turned into a hateful grimace as he stared at Batman. "You again!" he shouted. "Why must you always foil my best-laid plans?!"

"If you didn't want me coming, you shouldn't have told Harvey Dent where you were going!" Batman said.

"I meant it for Harvey Dent," Napier tried to wrench his hand free. "Not _you!_ - Unless…" he paused here, staring into Batman's masked face with a renewed, almost amused interest, "you're the same person?" He stared at Batman for a long, tense moment, then, suddenly, he reached out a hand and grabbed hold of his mask.

Batman smacked Napier's hand away with his free hand, then delivered a punch to Napier's face. Napier fell back into the oil, his lighter flying out of his hand and clattering onto the dry floor a few feet away, the flame going out. He scrambled back to his feet, slipping a knife out of his sleeve and holding it at the ready. Batman came for him again, and Napier jabbed at him with the knife, but Batman dodged it, instead grabbing Napier by the back of the head and slamming his face down into one of the oil barrels.

Napier stood back up, staggering back a few steps, and put a hand to his bleeding nose, looking down at the barely discernable red stain on his black gloves, then looked back up at Batman, and then, unexplainably, started to laugh. Then he reached down, picked up the lighter, and flicked it into life again. "Look where you're standing, Bats," he said, licking his lips. Batman looked down to see that he was standing in the puddle of oil that surrounded Rachel's chair, then looked back up at the Joker, whose coat and hair were saturated with oil. The Joker laughed again. "I drop this, we all go up in flames," he told Batman.

"You don't want to do that," Batman told him in a grave voice.

"Why not?" he tossed the lighter between his hands. "What if I just accidentally… slip?"

"If you do," Batman replied solemnly, "then Crane wins."

Napier stopped tossing the lighter between his hands and stared at Batman, the smile fading from his face. Then a sceptical frown crossed his face. "What?" he asked. "What does that have to do with -"

"If you kill yourself because you couldn't beat me, that means Crane has won," Batman repeated so that Napier could understand him. "Crane is a more powerful force of malevolence than you could ever be."

"That's a _lie!_ Crane's a… a…" Napier frantically tried to find words, his expression darkening into one of rage. "Crane… is… _flashy,_ and _juvenile!_" He licked his lips, pulling the words Crane had used against him at one point. "He puts on an imposing front, but I am _twice_ the villain he'll _ever_ be!"

"Then prove it!" Batman shouted, "_Prove _it! Put the lighter down and fight me like a _man!_"

Napier glared at him, then closed the lighter and tucked it into his pocket. Then, in one swift motion, he reached down to his suitcase, kicked it open, pulled out the semi-automatic, and opened fire on Batman. Batman dived behind a couple of oil barrels, dodge-rolling out of harm's way. "YOU WANNA FIGHT ME?!" Napier roared. "THEN COME OUT AND FIGHT!" He took aim at an oil barrel by one of the windows and opened fire. With an enormous, fiery blast, the barrel exploded, the flames cascading in a huge red tongue out the broken window.

"YOU SAID YOU WANTED TO FIGHT ME LIKE A MAN, BATS?!" Napier shouted, starting to pace in front of the barrels. "THEN COME OUT AND FUCKING_ FIGHT _ME!" He released a few rounds of bullets towards the ceiling, walking slowly back and forth in front of the barrels, waiting for Batman to resurface. He licked his lips, his eyes darting back and forth, trying to see any discernable sign of the caped crusader, but there was no sign of Batman.

Just then, a sound near the door made Napier turn, and he saw Officer Gordon run in, panting. His enraged expression turned to one of crazed delight. "Hey Gordon!" Napier shouted, and, as Gordon looked up at him, he took aim with the semi-automatic.

Suddenly, the front of his gun was grabbed from behind and the gun was pulled up, smashing him in the face. Napier cried out in pain, putting his hands to his nose, which he was sure was broken by now, and then a feral scream of anger bubbled up out of his chest. He turned to look at Batman, who held his semi-automatic, and pulled a long, jagged, treacherous knife from the inside of his coat, brandishing it at Batman like a madman. "Gordon!" Batman called as Napier took a swipe at him with the knife and he jumped back. "Gordon, get Rachel!"

Gordon nodded, eyes wide, and rushed to Rachel's side, where he started trying to untie the knots of the ropes that held her. "I'm gonna get you out of here, Rachel," he told her breathlessly, trying to untie the knots with shaking hands. "You're gonna be okay."

"Where's Harvey?" Rachel asked, frantic.

"Harvey… got a little held up," Gordon answered. He let the ropes drop, still tied, and frantically looked around for something to untie them with. He saw one of the Joker's smaller knives lying on the ground in a puddle of oil. He picked it up and began sawing through Rachel's bindings, his hands still shaking. Finally, the ropes fell away and Rachel was able to stand.

"Come on, we have to get out of here," Gordon said, helping her to her feet.

She started going with him, then stopped, turning back to the fight, "Wait! What about -"

"He can take care of himself," Gordon told her, taking her arm. "Come on, we have to get out of here!" The two of them started running again, and finally made it to the door, down the stairs, and out of the building to safety.

Napier swiped at Batman again with the knife, and Batman took a step back, avoiding the blade. "I don't want to kill you!" he exclaimed, frustrated.

"No?" Napier asked, stabbing for him again and again missing. "Then that makes you _weak!_"

"No," Batman countered, jumping back again, "that just makes me not like you!" He grabbed Napier's knife hand and rammed the knife into the lid of one of the oil barrels. Napier tried to drag it free, but the knife was stuck fast. Then Batman grabbed him by the front of his vest and dragged him away from the oil barrel and the knife. Napier glared down at him, then his face split into a mad grin.

"You want to kill me…" he said slowly, "_don't_ you?"

"The thought has crossed my mind," Batman admitted.

"But you _can't,_" Napier said, "because that would make you just… like… me." He grinned at Batman, then began to chuckle softly, a sadistic, high-pitched chuckle. "And we wouldn't want that," he said, "now would we?"

He looked away, licking his lips, tasting blood. He was sure his face was covered in it. Then he looked back at Batman. "The way I see it," he said, "you have one of two options here. Either you let me go, and we both go on our merry ways and one day meet up again for another one of these… _rousing battles,_" he moistened his tongue and swallowed, "or you take me into custody, and we end up staring at each other from either side of bars. Which sounds like tons of fun, by the way. In case you were wondering. I never get tired of looking at you." He grinned and winked sarcastically. Batman frowned.

"Well, good," he said gruffly. "Because you're going to jail. For _good_ this time."

"Oh, goody," said Napier with a strange, twisted grin. "I do _love_ those happy little cells. Why, it almost feels like _home._"

Batman scowled at this. He did not appreciate Napier's carefree, mocking nature. He took Napier by the back of the head and slammed his face into one of the oil barrels again, then pulled him up by his hair. "Not feeling so cocky _now,_ are you?!" he growled.

"Aow," Napier grimaced. "This is starting to feel habitual - have you looked into anger management?"

Batman slammed his face into the oil barrel again. "This works just fine, for me!" he answered bitterly.

"I think I'm losing brain cells," Napier mumbled, sounding slightly punch-drunk, his face covered in a gory spatter of blood. Batman reared Napier's head back to slam it into the oil barrel again when -

_"Stop!"_

Batman looked up to see Gordon hurrying towards him, frowning darkly. He held Napier, not sure what to do with him. Gordon jogged up to him. "What do you think you're _doing?_" he demanded. "You're going to _kill _him!"

"Mm, thas'what _I_ said," Napier muttered, feeling his jaw to make sure it was not broken.

"Drop him!" Gordon demanded. Batman stared at Gordon for a long moment, then dropped Napier, who fell into a heap on the floor.

"I think I've got a concussion," Napier moaned, putting a hand to his head.

Gordon looked down at Napier, then up at Batman. "Look, I appreciate the help," he said, breathless, "but you can't put these guys out of commission before we can question them!"

"Yeah," Napier agreed blurrily from the ground, "that's true."

"He won't talk," Batman said grimly, frowning.

"That's prob'ly true, too," Napier put in, not even bothering to get up.

"Well, he certainly won't talk if he's _dead,_" Gordon countered, ignoring Napier. "Or if he's got a cracked skull! You can't slam these people around like rag dolls, they're humans, too! They can get _hurt!_"

"Ah, _yep,_" Napier agreed.

"They _deserve_ to be hurt," Batman shot back. "You see what they do to people, and for no justifiable reason at all! They hurt others because it _amuses_ them!"

Napier giggled at this. "Yeah," he said.

"They deserve _justice,_ just like everyone else," Gordon retorted.

"Right you are, Officer," said Napier, still not getting up from the floor.

"Shut up, you!" Batman exclaimed, delivering a kick to Napier's side.

"_Aow!_" Napier retorted in a droll monotone. "Assault and battery, Officer. Suspend his dress-up licence."

Gordon reached down to Napier, pushing him over and pulling his arms behind him, locking them tightly into handcuffs. "This could have been much worse," he conceded. He dragged Napier unsteadily to his feet, then looked over at Batman and nodded. "Thanks," he said.

"Don't thank me," Batman told him sincerely.

Gordon nodded, then pulled on Napier's sleeve. "Come on, you," he said. "Let's get you back to the station."

"I think I've got a concussion," Napier repeated.

"I wouldn't doubt it," Gordon answered.

Gordon's begging fell on deaf ears; Maria followed him into the building, grabbing the handgun from the glovebox of her car before she went. She wondered briefly if she'd actually be able to pull the trigger, then caught sight of the picture clipped to her rearview mirror. Max's chocolate eyes gazed sadly out at her. She gritted her teeth. She'd be able to do it.

She was surprised that something like hatred was coursing through her veins at the sight of Batman. The way he was jerking Napier around made it impossible for her to get off a good shot. She shakily lowered her arm and put the gun into her pocket before it could be seen; something told her that Gordon wouldn't appreciate her efforts.

The sight of Napier's face covered in blood set something off in her. She didn't want to kill him any more. She _needed_ to kill him. She yanked the gun back out of her pocket and cocked it as she walked forward. "Gordon..." she growled, then pointed the gun awkwardly at the Joker. "Drop him and watch out. My aim's not too good."

Gordon stopped in his tracks, jerking Napier back slightly as he did so. Napier made a short noise of tired protest, then looked up, his eyelids sagging slightly, as if he were falling asleep on his feet. When he saw Maria, a vacant half-grin began spreading across his bloody face. "Oh," Napier said, sounding strangely upbeat, though half-asleep, "hullo, Maria."

Gordon held out a hand towards her, his eyes pleading with her. "Please, Maria," he said, "j-just try to calm down, okay? We can work this out. There doesn't have to be any bloodshed."

"I feel funny," Napier mumbled, glancing over at Gordon, "I think I need some sleep or sunthin'."

"No, you can't fall asleep!" Gordon insisted, jerking Napier back again. Napier staggered a bit at being shaken, but regained his footing. Then Gordon turned back to Maria. "Look, I know he did terrible things to you, but we need him. Not only is he a dangerous criminal, but he is essential to the Crane case!"

"And he was one hell of a problem to catch," Batman put in. "You can't just _shoot_ someone who's that much trouble."

Napier chuckled languidly. "Sure, you can," he said, punch-drunk. "Who're we talking about again?"

"Wake up!" Gordon shook him again.

"I'm awake! I'm awake." Napier shook his head. "But I'm tellin' you, Officer, I need a nap or sunthin', 'cause I got this splitting headache…"

"Shut up!" Batman insisted.

"Okay," Napier mumbled, looking back at his feet.

Gordon turned back to Maria. "Look, he needs some real medical attention," he said, at his wit's end. "It just wouldn't be _right_ to shoot a man when he's down."

"'Swhat _I'd_ do," Napier put in drowsily.

Gordon stared at Napier for a moment, then looked back over at Maria. If that statement was not a sound argument for her to put the gun away, he could not think of a better one.

She blinked and looked between the three men, then slowly her arm lowered. She was not going to be like Napier. He'd done terrible things, but that definitely didn't mean she should follow suit. The gun dropped to the ground with a defeated _clang_ and she kicked it away viciously. It skittered away into a dark corner, and she followed it silently with her eyes.

Then she looked up and locked her gaze with Gordon's, then Batman's. "If he gets out..." She pointed at Napier. "If he gets out, or escapes, or _anything_..." She let the sentence hang, then her shoulders sagged in defeat. "I'm going home...sorry, _back to the hotel_," she corrected herself with a savage glare at Napier. "I'll go to the hospital tomorrow and see if I can get any information out of Jessica; I'll let you know what I find out." With that, she turned and left the building.

Gordon had had an officer sit in the back of the squad vehicle to shake Napier every time he almost nodded off. He had promised the officer a raise if he would do it. All the while he was driving to Gotham General, Gordon kept glancing into the rear-view mirror as the nervous officer kept shaking a woozy Napier awake, and wondered how in the world he was going to pay him, with the slim budget the police department was already running on. Then he remembered Bruce Wayne's willingness to help pay expenses.

Maybe Wayne would pay the difference. If anything, he was sure the officer would be perfectly content with Wayne's Rolex, which Wayne seemed all too happy to give away.

Then again, Gordon was not sure the officer would take kindly to being asked to don a frilly hospital gown to get his promotion.

Gordon sighed, his eyes returning to the road ahead, and pulled up into the parking lot of Gotham General Hospital. He parked the car, then went around to the back and opened Napier's door, dragging him out of the car and unsteadily to his feet. "Where're we goin', Officer?" Napier asked blurrily, staggering along in Gordon's wake.

"We're going to get your head looked at," Gordon told him plainly.

"Ha," Napier grinned languidly, "I already know I'm crazy, Officer, I don' need a _doctor_ t' tell me _that_."

Gordon pushed open the doors of the hospital and pulled Napier behind him up to the receptionist's desk. She turned and looked at him, surprised, then her eyes went to Napier, his face bloody and painted up like a clown, his bizarre choice in clothes, his green hair, and the fact that he was just so _big_, and her expression turned to one of horror. Gordon smiled apologetically at her. "Um, Miss," he said, and her attention turned, rather reluctantly, back to him. He shrugged. "Uh, he's just had a bad _accident_ and we think he might have a concussion, so we'd like to get him looked at."

"Hey," Napier said, staggering but catching his balance, "that wasn' an accident, that was assault n' battery, Officer."

"He's a little bit drunk," Gordon whispered to the receptionist, who nodded slowly, staring at Napier.

"Oh… okay," she said hesitantly, pulling out a clipboard and pencil and starting to write on it with a shaky hand. "Well, um… if you'll just sit over there, the doctor will be right in to see you…"

"Doctor _Crane?_" Napier leaned over the counter towards the receptionist, dripping blood onto her paperwork. She cringed away, shocked and terrified. "I don't want to see Doctor Crane - I don't want to see Doctor Crane, Officer," Napier said, turning back to Gordon, shaking his head vehemently.

"No, no, it's not Doctor Crane, it's a _different_ kind of doctor," Gordon assured him, "somebody who can help you with your… _injuries._"

Napier nodded slowly, licking his lips. "My nose is bleeding, isn't it?" he asked.

"Yeah," Gordon said, nodding. "Yeah, pretty badly. But the doctor's going to take a look at it and get you all cleaned up."

"My nose is bleeding," repeated Napier woozily, preoccupied.

Gordon turned back to the receptionist. "Any chance the doctor can see us _now?_" he asked hopefully.

She looked back at him, her attention breaking away from Napier. "Huh? - Oh, um…" she checked her schedule. "He seems to be a little busy…"

"I gotta piss," mumbled Napier, starting to rock slightly on the balls of his feet. He looked down at the floor. "My shoe's untied."

Gordon looked at him, then back at the receptionist. "Are you sure the doctor can't see us now?" he asked.

She looked at him, then down at her paperwork. Then she looked up at him again. "A slot just opened up," she said, a bit too upbeat. "You guys can… go right ahead in to see him."

Gordon nodded to her. "Thank you," he said, breathless. Then he took Napier's arm and started to drag him along. "C'mon, you."

"I really gotta _piss,_ though," Napier said, stumbling along behind Gordon. "Should I just go on the floor?"

_"No!"_ Gordon exclaimed before pushing open the door that led further into the hospital and going through it, dragging Napier behind him.

Livvy stood in front of the intensive care unit doors, one hand on the glass. She finally turned around and began walking down the hallway with downcast eyes. Her nurse would probably be really mad if she found out Olivia had left; she'd told the girl not five minutes ago to stay put in her room. But how could she expect Livvy to just sit there? Especially since...

The doors at the end of the hallway slammed shut, and she lifted her head. "Mr. Gordon...?" She started excitedly towards him, but stopped in her tracks at the sight of the big man with him. He was _terrifying_. Big as a giant, face covered in paint and blood...Livvy shrank back in fear against the wall.

"Who's _he_?" she asked in a quivering voice.

Gordon looked up in surprise when he heard the familiar little voice, and his eyes came to rest on Olivia. "Olivia!" he exclaimed, letting go of Napier to scoop up the little girl in his arms. "You shouldn't be out of bed! You'll get in trouble!" He looked over at Napier, considering how to word the answer to her question. "He is…" he started, then stopped, not sure of what to say. "He is… a _very bad man._" He looked back at Olivia with a sad frown. "He is a very mean man who likes to hurt people. You don't want to be friends with people like him when you grow up."

"_I'll_ be your friend," Napier said with a grin, holding his balance, blood dripping slowly off of his chin.

"Don't talk to her!" Gordon told Napier sharply, affronted. "She doesn't want anything to do with you. She- she's just an innocent child."

Napier wavered, his eyes closing slightly, then looked back up at Olivia, wetting his lips. "I bet you're a real smart little girl," he said. "Not like _he_ thinks. I bet you're smarter than _all _these goons give you credit for."

"Don't look at him, Olivia," Gordon said, turning away from Napier. "He's not _right_ in the head, and he's trying to make you think the same way he does. He's a very bad man."

"Would you like to know how I got my scars?" Napier asked, taking a staggering step backwards. "I was about your age when it happened, an' my mother, she was a bad drinker, an' she used to beat me…"

"_Stop it,_ would you?!" Gordon exclaimed, turning back to Napier. Napier stared at him, his mouth hanging slightly open, blood dripping from his face. "She doesn't need to hear your morbid stories! She's only a little girl!" Gordon held Olivia close, as if she were his own daughter. "Don't listen to him, Livvy," he said quietly, "he's a bad, bad man and his mind doesn't work good like yours and mine. Don't pay any attention to him."

Napier swallowed, looking away. "She cut my face open with a scaling knife," he mumbled. "I gotta piss."

Livvy stared over Gordon's shoulder at the man for a moment, noticing that he could hardly stand, then looked up at Gordon. "If his brain doesn't work good, then how does he talk like us?" She watched his face for a moment, then got down out of his arms.

"Maybe you should listen to his stories," she suggested. "Todd always said that you can learn things from the most...um...unsuspected sources, I think." She offered a tiny smile, then looked down the hallway as the doors banged open again.

"Olivia!" It was her nurse. "I told you to stay in your room. Won't you just..." She stopped when she saw Gordon and Napier. "O-oh..." She stepped forward and hurriedly grabbed Olivia. "I'm sorry, officer, I thought..." She paused and looked back at Napier again, muttering something that sounded like, "what's _that_?" Then she shook her head and continued, "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to stop encouraging her. She's been sneaking out since you came here earlier..."

Olivia interrupted her. "It's not his fault, really. I'm just a bad girl." She looked with dramatically guilty eyes at Jen, who sighed and shook her head.

"Fine. Let's just go back, then." She grabbed Olivia's hand and led her away down the hallway. Livvy had a chance for one backward glance, then obediently followed. At the last minute, she remembered something and turned around.

"Mr. Gordon, if you get time, could you go see Todd?" She smiled sadly. "He's in the ICU, whatever that is. The doctors were saying that they needed to watch him closely for a while. He had a stroke." Then she turned around and left.

Gordon turned back around when Livvy said 'stroke', eyes wide with shock. "What?!" he exclaimed. He felt faint. Todd had looked so healthy earlier that day… how could he have possibly had a stroke between then and now? But then Gordon remembered Todd's angered outburst, and the way he had questioned his motives for living anymore, and he began to worry even more. Half of getting well was the will to do so, and Todd did not seem to have any of that.

"Todd…." he said, taking a step towards Olivia, then he remembered Napier. He turned back to the other officer, who had just returned from checking out the lavatories to make sure it was safe for Napier to use them. "If I go to the ICU, can you take him to get his head looked at?"

The officer looked warily up at Napier, who was staring vacantly down at his feet, watching a small puddle of blood form between his shoes. Then he looked back at Gordon and nodded. "I think I can handle it."

"I still…" Napier mumbled, shifting slightly from foot to foot, "I still… gotta _piss._"

Gordon heaved a sigh, glanced towards where Olivia had disappeared to, then moved back to Napier, taking his arm. "Come on," he said. "You can relieve yourself, but then you're going in to see the doctor, whether you like it or not."

"Mm," Napier agreed blurrily.

Gordon walked down the hall, following the signs that pointed to the hospital restrooms until finally they came across two doors, marked with the symbols for men and women. Gordon pulled Napier up to the doors and stopped in front of the one marked for men. He did not want Napier, in his current state, to mix up the restrooms and walk in on some woman. Knowing Napier, Gordon knew that that could potentially result in disaster. "Go on in," Gordon said, indicating towards the door of the lavatory. Napier stared at it, then looked down at his arms.

"How am I supposed to go like _this?_" he asked, shrugging his shoulders to indicate his hands still locked behind his back.

Gordon sighed and started forward warily, taking out his ring of keys. The officer with him took out his gun and put it to Napier's head so he would not try any funny business. Gordon unlocked the cuffs from his wrists, and Napier took a moment, rubbing his wrists, before moving forward and pushing open the door of the bathroom, letting himself in.

Gordon looked over at the other officer. "You made sure there were no windows in there?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," the officer nodded.

"No ventilation systems large enough to crawl into?"

"Yes, sir."

Gordon nodded, folding his hands together in front of him and leaning back against the wall. "Okay," he said with a relieved sigh. He and the other officer stood waiting for a long moment. Gordon checked his watch. "How long do you think is enough time to give him to… finish up with everything?" he asked, a bit nervous.

"Usually, I wouldn't say more than five minutes," the other officer replied. "But under the circumstances… maybe seven?"

Gordon nodded, folding his arms. "Why does time always seem to go so _slowly_ when you're dreading that something _horrible_ is going to happen?" he finally asked.

The other officer shrugged. "They say time flies when you're having fun," he said. "I guess it's just the opposite of that."

"Huh," Gordon said, mildly interested. He looked up as a tall, slightly stocky doctor walked past them, nodded at them, then disappeared into the restroom. Gordon glanced over at the other officer, then checked his watch again. "Leave it to him to have to _pee_ as soon as we catch him," Gordon muttered, folding his arms and leaning against the wall again.

The other officer glanced over at him. "You know what they say about scared dogs," he said.

Gordon glanced over at him. "You think he's scared?" he asked.

The other officer shrugged. "It's possible," he said.

Gordon looked away, shaking his head slowly. "No," he said, "I don't think he's scared. He's too _twisted_ to be scared of something like a little jail time."

The door of the bathroom opened again and the stocky doctor exited, adjusting his lab coat as he walked up the hall away from Gordon and the other officer. Gordon watched him for a moment, then checked his watch again and sighed. "It's been eight minutes," he said, looking over at the other officer. "D'you think we should go in, see if he's okay? He might've fallen asleep, hit his head or something."

The other officer shrugged. "Can't see that it would've done him any harm," he said.

Gordon chuckled half-heartedly and turned to the lavatory door, opening it and going inside.

The first thing he saw was blood.

The floor was covered in paper towels, all of them filthy with blood and makeup, and there was a path of bloody footprints leading away from the handicapped stall. Trying to keep himself from being sick, Gordon took out his gun and slowly made his way towards the handicapped stall, then, reaching it, he cautiously reached out a hand to the door, took a deep breath, and pushed it open.

The sight inside made him take a horrified step back. The tall doctor sat crumpled on the floor, wearing nothing but his boxers and his shoes, his head in the toilet-bowl, a large spatter of blood against the handicapped handlebar that ran alongside the wall. The toilet, itself, was covered in bloody handprints and other random spatters of blood. The sink was covered in watery blood as well, and paper-towels were stuck, thick, soggy, and covered in makeup, to the sides of it.

"He tricked us," Gordon said faintly, horrified. "He never had a concussion at all. He tricked us… and we fell for it."

The other officer pulled the doctor's head from the toilet, dripping watery blood, and Gordon looked over to see that half of his face had been bashed in, and his jaw hung, limp and broken, at an awkward angle. Gordon closed his eyes, turning away, trying not to be sick. Of course. That doctor that had passed them as they stood outside had not been a doctor at all. Napier had slipped right under their noses, and they had not even noticed. Gordon cursed himself for being so stupid.

But, no matter whose fault it was, one thing was painfully clear.

The Joker was free again.


	24. Chapter TwentyThree

Jeanette followed obediently and quietly, noting that the others followed suit. _Has his dogs trained nicely, this one,_ she thought, keeping one eye on Kitty. Crane had her completely under his thumb. What on earth did he do to make her so damn timid? Unless she was naturally that way, in which case getting her free might be a problem.

She caught up to the doctor. "That's the second time I've been accused of being a cop, if you'll believe it," she told him, rotating her shoulders. The cuffs were uncomfortable. "I am not a cop. A woman like me just knows how to get information." She smiled coyly and tilted her head up at the sky. "You know." Let him think about _that_ for a while.

With that, she dropped back to where Kitty was shuffling along. She eyed the big guy, who was keeping a good distance away from the group (something told her he was a bit of a black sheep), decided he didn't look particularly violent at the moment, and struck up a conversation. "You know this Napier fellow he's talking about?" she asked quietly, daring Crane to shush her; he'd have her foot in his face before he could say "censorship," and forget being knocked out by Goodhart.

"How'd _you_ get involved with this group, anyways?" she added. She tried to keep her tone light and detached, but she unintentionally kept her eyes locked on Kitty. Could she be blamed for being curious?

Kitty looked up in surprise at being addressed, but her expression softened when she saw that it was the jogger who was talking to her. So long as the jogger was in cuffs, Kitty trusted that she was not one of Crane's minions. She turned her head back, considering her question. "Um," she said, biting her lip, "I've heard his name so many times… but I really have no idea who he is." She looked up at the jogger, shaking her head. "I've been told things about him, but I don't know what to believe… everyone says that he's my husband, but I don't remember a thing about him."

She gently combed her fingers through Jeannie Rose's soft curls, thinking. "Um, we were… picked up by Batman," she said, nodding slowly. "And we were brought to the police station, and they tried to tell me about Jack Napier, but… Well, this _one_ very nice lady told me he had Jeannie Rose's eyes, Jack Napier." she said, looking up at the jogger. She paused again. "So that was all I knew about him," she admitted. "And then, while we were heading home, we were grabbed… and we've been with this group ever since…" She shook her head, confused. "They keep talking about Jack Napier, and some kind of leverage… I don't know what any of it means."

She sighed. "Then he - Doctor Crane," she indicated with a nod of her head, "told me that Jack Napier was some kind of _freak_." She shook her head. "I don't know what to believe," she said, looking over at the jogger. "I don't want him to be a freak… if he's a freak, like he says, then I'd rather not know about it." She looked away again, sad. "I've just been… following, ever since," she said faintly. "Doing everything I can to try to keep my daughter out of harm… just trying to keep her safe." She rested her cheek against Jeannie Rose's head with a sigh. Then she looked up, over at Jeanette.

"What were _you_ doing in the Narrows?" she asked, her brow furrowing. "You don't seem the type to be out here. There must be some other reason you were out so late at night, and in such a dangerous place…" She watched her, her dull blue eyes interested. "Would you like to talk about it?" she asked. She put a hand to Jeannie Rose's head, holding it gently against her shoulder. "I'm a good listener."

Jeanette watched the little girl for a moment. She couldn't see much of a similarity between her and Napier. But, then again, she'd only seen Napier with his face paint off once. So who was she to judge?

She looked up sharply at Kitty's question. Weird coincidence, she decided, and smiled. "Oh, believe me, I never seem the type to be _anything_ people assume me to be." Then she sighed. "There's not much to tell. I went out for a run to...ah...clear my head, so it were," she said, edging carefully around the full truth, "and ended up over here."

She readjusted her arms behind her back again and looked at the night sky. "So Crane's intending to use you for leverage against Jack Napier," she said, mostly for her own benefit. "What on earth for, I wonder?"

Kitty laughed faintly at her statement, then looked away, sighing. "People are hardly ever what they seem," she said sadly. "It's one of this life's great tragedies… that so few people can be trusted to be what they appear." She paused, staring ahead at nothing in particular, then looked back over at Jeanette. "What's your name?" she asked. "If you don't mind me knowing. I know you didn't want to tell _him…._" She nodded towards Crane, as if just saying his name was too unpleasant for her. Then she looked back at Jeanette. "If you don't want to tell me, that's okay, too," she said, adjusting Jeannie Rose on her hip.

She sighed then, looking away. "We could all use a little time to clear our heads," she said quietly, looking at her daughter, who had fallen asleep on her shoulder, tired out by the strenuous goings-on of that morning. Kitty looked up at Crane's back and frowned slightly. "And some of us should have our heads _removed,_" she added in a somewhat dark murmur. "_Both_ of them."

Then she looked back over at Jeanette. "I have no idea," she said, shaking her head. "But from what I've heard about him, I'm not even sure I want to see Jack Napier… let alone be used as some kind of _bait_ for him." She rested her chin against Jeannie Rose's head, thinking. "Sometimes I just feel so… _used,_" she said quietly, more to herself than to Jeanette. "I never wanted to get involved in this… _any_ of this." She stared ahead for a long moment, then seemed to snap back to reality, and turned back to Jeanette, looking faintly surprised. "I'm sorry," she said, "were you saying something?"

Kitty put a hand to her forehead. "I think I might be slightly warm," she commented, then shook her head, adjusting Jeannie Rose in her arms. "I'm just imagining it. I'm fine." She sighed then, looking at Jeannie Rose. "We should never have left the hospital," she said quietly. "It was safe there… there wasn't any of this, all this… distress, and destruction, and…" She looked up at Crane again. "…_Evil._"

Jeanette considered Kitty for only a moment before deciding that she wasn't any kind of threat. "It's Jeanette," she said quietly, eyeing Crane again. Now, he _was_ a threat. A small, scrawny, obnoxious threat, but a threat all the same.

She then sighed at Kitty's musings. Everything the woman said about Napier was negative, but it's not like that was abnormal. To Gotham's everyday citizens, Napier was just the Joker, a psychopathic killer without rules or limitations. "He's still a human being, you know," she told the other woman, looking her in the eye. "And I have the feeling that if he finds a connection to his past life...like you," she nodded at Kitty, "he could easily go back to the man he was before everything went wrong."

There was a pause, and Jeanette flushed. "I mean, I _think_ so," she said in a dismissive tone. She'd spoken much too informally; she wasn't supposed to know much about this. She watched Crane, hoping that he hadn't overheard.

Crane turned his head slightly, listening to the conversation between the two women, making sure not to be too conspicuous. He wanted to hear as much as he possibly could without being discovered. Even if they did see him, though, there was nothing they could do about it. One was handcuffed, and the other was so meek that she would probably be scared by a common housecat. But, then again, anything was prone to change at a moment's notice, and he was not about to be caught unawares if someone in their group decided to try to pull a mutiny.

Just let them try, he thought. They would get a nice face full of his fear toxin, and spend the rest of their days rocking in some cell in Arkham. It would serve them right for trying to go against his authority.

Kitty looked over at Jeanette in interest. "Jeanette?" she asked. She glanced down at her daughter. "My little girl… her name is Jeannie. Jeannie Rose." She smiled faintly at Jeanette. "Funny coincidence, huh?" she asked, smoothing Jeannie Rose's soft curls against her head. Then she sighed, kissing Jeannie Rose's little head. "I suppose so," she said quietly. "Everyone's human in the end, I guess… even those people who don't seem to have anything human _about_ them." She did not look up at Crane this time, but it was obvious from her just discernable bitterness that he was, once again, the target of her spite.

Then she looked up at Jeanette again. "Do you… _know _him?" she asked, frowning slightly. "Jack Napier. Do you… I mean, it seems crazy, but…" She paused a moment, looked at her daughter, then looked over at Jeanette again. Then she shook her head. "I'm sorry," she said quietly, looking away again. "That's silly of me… of course you don't know him. Nobody seems to know him very well at all." She looked away, to no place in particular, holding Jeannie Rose close. "I just can't help but feel… that no one really _wants_ to," she said quietly.

Jeanette smiled at the weird coincidence, then nodded at the little girl. "She's...ah...cute, by the way," she said, the words sounding uncomfortable in her mouth. It wasn't that she disliked children, she just didn't have much experience with them outside of babysitting her cousins when she was younger.

Well, in her line of work, how could she have?

She eyed Crane, who still didn't seem to be listening, one more time before speaking in an even quieter, quicker voice. "No, it's not silly. Listen. I can't exactly say I _know_ him, but..." She paused, searching for what word to use. "I've _met_ Jack Napier." She wasn't sure how to explain the circumstances; Kitty was obviously disgusted at the thought of committing a crime, much less murder.

"You could say we met through work," she finally said, looking apologetically at Kitty and shrugging as if to say "sorry". If the woman had any sense, she'd realize what working with Napier meant. "And I think he mostly misses his old life. Misses _you_."

Jeanette almost stopped walking at this point. What the hell was she saying? The psycho got drunk and tried to force himself on her, and she was defending his humanity? She shook her head and just hoped she wasn't going insane.

Ah, well. Even if she was, at least she was in good company.

Kitty frowned slightly at her mention of meeting Jack Napier through 'work'. If there was one thing Kitty had learned, it was that 'work' was the most loosely-used term in Gotham, and a large majority of the time, the 'work' being done was not honest, honourable employment at all. She decided to say nothing about it, though… she did not want to get on this woman's bad side, in case she either needed her help at a later date or she turned out to be some kind of killer. Kitty did not want to put herself or her daughter in the line of fire for any more people who turned out to be as sadistic and twisted as Doctor Crane.

Then she began to worry. If this woman was as much of a threat as she had the potential to be, then what kind of person would that make Jack Napier? Kitty looked down at Jeannie Rose, her brow furrowing. If Jeannie Rose's father had dangerous, illegal, possibly even homicidal tendencies, then what kind of person would Jeannie Rose turn out to be when she was older? Kitty held her daughter closer, resting her cheek protectively on her soft head. Then something Jeanette said made her look up.

"He… misses me?" she asked faintly. She stared at Jeanette, confused. "He… said so?" She looked away, thinking. If he missed her, then why had he not come looking for her before now? And was he even looking for her now? She sighed in slight frustration, readjusting Jeannie Rose on her hip. "So he… remembers me," she said, turning back to Jeanette. "Even if I… don't remember him." Her eyes went to the ground in worry, and she frowned. If a man who was as potentially dangerous as Jack Napier missed a woman like her, then what kind of woman had she been, before…

She shook the thought from her head. She had always been this way. Someone did not change their entire personality, just because of something like a bump on the head. And besides, she had to have been a good person, or else they would not have let her keep Jeannie Rose and take singular care of her. Bad parents were not given the opportunity, or the rights, to take care of their own children.

But, then again, this was Gotham, and _nothing_ was quite right here.

Crane stopped in his tracks, his hands folded behind his back, and looked up at the darkening sky. "We've had enough excitement for one day, I think," he said quietly, his light eyes taking in the dimming horizon in a pensive arch. Then he turned to the rest of the group. "We'll find somewhere to rest," he said. "We have a lot of things to do tomorrow… first and foremost, find Maria," he nodded towards Goodhart, "and see if we can get her to lead us to Jack Napier… or at least tell us where to find him." He swallowed, cocking his head, "I suppose that all depends on how _helpful_ she's willing to be… under the circumstances."

His gaze moved to Jeanette and Kitty, and he stared at the two of them for a long moment before quirking a cold, tight grin in Kitty's direction. Kitty cringed slightly, taking a step back and holding her daughter tightly. Crane watched her intently, then his eyes flicked to the little girl. "Perhaps," he said slowly, "I should let you hold her more often… since you both seem to be participating so nicely." His eyes moved back to her face, her expression scared and slightly upset, and then he looked over at Jeanette. He looked her up and down once, arched an eyebrow at her, and turned back around. She looked like she had run the course before, and not in the innocent, nuptial way Kitty had, either. But, also, she looked like she would not take kindly to being messed with in any way, and especially by someone like Jonathan Crane.

He clenched his jaw, clearing his throat, and then nodded forward slightly. "We'll have to find somewhere _inconspicuous_ to stay for tonight," he said. He paused. "Then again," he added quietly, "in this town, nobody really asks questions…" He looked up and saw, somewhere down the street, a dull lighted sign flickering derisorily, almost as if it were meant to catch his attention. He frowned, looking around at where he had ended up taking them with slight disdain. This was the cheap side of Gotham, where the losers and bums went for their entertainment when they did not feel like mingling with the rich or the criminals. This was the prostitution and booze corner of Gotham.

Crane flattened his nose in a derisive grimace, then glanced back at the rest of the group, lips pursed and eyebrows locked. Then his expression shifted into to one of pained, sarcastic enthusiasm. "Who's in the mood for a shower?" he asked, indicating the flickering Bar / Motel sign.

"_There_?" Jeanette couldn't help herself. She scowled in the direction of the sleazy place in which Crane expected them to stay. If it wasn't for Kitty and Napier's sakes, she'd leave this little group right then and there.

Of course, the handcuffs might have a small something to do with it, too.

She shifted so that she was blocking Kitty from Crane, all the while eyeing the hotel as if she didn't realize what she was doing. It was obvious that the man was unnerving Kitty, and that made Jeanette a little angry. She didn't appreciate guys who went for intimidation. It was clear Crane enjoyed exactly that. "Showers sound nice..." she said airily. Then she turned to Crane with a grin that concealed a full-out laugh.

"So, this Maria...is she a _close acquaintance_?" She raised her eyebrows to make her meaning clear, and looked back at the motel.

Crane froze, his jaw locked, and turned slowly on his heel to face the jogger. He turned his head slightly, taking a sharp, controlled inhale, and then said slowly, "Yes, _there._" He swallowed, lifting his chin and straightening out his suit jacket, almost like a stress-reliever or a nervous habit, then looked back up at her and said in a cold, clipped voice, "And no, we are not… _close._" He stared at her for a long moment, taking note of how she was shielding Kitty with her body. This was a smart woman, cocky, too, and, from what he could tell, unpredictably independent. He thought that someone with her good form and attractive features would have been completely dependant on the support of others, particularly those of the masculine persuasion who happened to have equally good bodies, pretty faces, and, if she was lucky, fancy cars.

On the surface, she seemed like the perfect candidate for Bruce Wayne's girlfriend. But he had slowly begun to piece together her character, and he could tell that she was a very autonomous - and, if given the opportunity, probably very _dangerous_ - woman.

He looked her up and down once more, then turned back around. "Make sure the cocky one comes along," he muttered to Goodhart before tucking his hands behind his back and starting towards the Bar and Inn. "We wouldn't want to leave any of our _friends _behind." A tight, cold grin flicked across his lips at this. Crane had no friends, and he liked it that way. Friends were things that tied people to a world of fear, for people were constantly worried that something terrible might happen to their loved ones. If a person were to have no loved ones, then they could not be dragged down by that fear.

He had been called a lonely man, among other, more spiteful words that had been used to describe him… but somehow, he never considered himself lonely. He never considered himself most of any of the things he had heard whispered about him behind his back. The only one he could, or would, whole-heartedly agree with was when someone said that he was "insane". That was always fun. Especially when they said it to his face.

The cold smirk widened as he thought of the last person who had called him crazy to his face. Of course, he had handled the situation quite graciously. But, he wondered, now that Jessica was dead, who would there be to look after the poor, drooling lunatic in his cozy Arkham cell?

"Oh, you had a fight, then," Jeanette clarified in a smug tone, not willing to let it go. Annoying Crane was just too much _fun_. And she simply took the "cocky" comment with pride. If she was cocky, at least she knew how to use it.

She looked at Goodhart a bit nervously, all the same. Being knocked out was not a good feeling, and having it done twice to her by the same person was unnerving, especially since no one else had been able to do it for a very long time. She'd toe the line around him, at least. Aggravating a mad dog was never a good idea, especially if the dog was of the rottweiler variety.

Being a bit crazy probably wouldn't help, either. And judging by the news report about this little group, Goodhart was the second convict who'd escaped from Arkham.

As she gave the inn a second glance, she admitted that it wasn't as bad as some of the places she'd seen around here. It did have a roof, and a door. And it was definitely better than sleeping on the floor of some abandoned warehouse. She just wondered how he was intending to pay for a few rooms.

Goodhart was wondering exactly the same thing. He watched Crane with a sort of detached disdain and thought again about ways he could knock everyone in this group off. The jogger would be easy; he could just hit her a bit too hard one of these times, and say it was an accident.

He had to keep Crane around for a little while longer, though. At least until they found Maria. And it might be a good idea not to get rid of Kitty or Flicker, as much as he might want to. Hurting them could bring on a bit of anger from Crane.

Crane stopped and slowly closed his eyes, taking in deep, calming breaths as he tried to steady himself. He would not lose his head over something like this. It just was not worth it. This girl was pushing the limit, but he would not let her see that it was bothering him. "_Déan neamhiontas de ise,_" he said under his breath, taking deep, calming inhales. "_Tá sí duine gan mhaith._" He straightened out his jacket again, clearing his throat, and exhaled. Then he said, loud enough for Jeanette to hear him, "We had a slight _falling-out, _yes… but not the kind you think." He paused a moment, then started for the bar and inn with his company in tow.

As soon as they entered the bar, which was on the lower floor of the combined building, a hooker instantly sidled up to Crane. "I love a man who's _all business,_" she told him in an accented drawl.

"Do you know what _I_ love?" he asked her, giving her a wide, sarcastic, bitter smile. "I love a woman who screams in terror at the thought of me."

"So… you're into the more _kinky_ stuff, are you?" she asked, the slightest bit put off.

"Oh, no, not really," he replied with a soft chuckle, "not unless you say that torturing peoples' minds until they are unable to do anything but cry, drool, and rock, and possibly, if they're particularly vocal, scream, is _kinky_… or having people watch footage of their loved ones being tortured or killed while restrained in a small cage unfit for a dog, is _kinky._" His grin widened at her horrified expression. "_Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?_" he finally asked, sarcasm dripping from his every word.

She stared at him, terrified, for a long moment. Then she said, "I, um… don't speak Spanish." and quickly walked away from him.

Crane's sarcastic grin soon turned to a disgusted grimace. "I hate this part of Gotham," he muttered. He moved over to the counter and began discussing rates with the bartender.

Kitty hugged Jeannie Rose closer to her, frowning, horrified, around at the crowded, smoky barroom. She stayed close to Jeanette, willing the taller, more muscular woman to be almost her human shield against any of the prying eyes or groping hands of the burly, rowdy inhabitants, cowering under the eyes of the glaring, smoking hookers in their skimpy attire who made it painfully clear that they did not appreciate meek, commonplace Kitty and her abominable brat on their territory. She looked away from them, wishing she could just sink through the floor, and caught sight of something she had not expected. Sitting at the bar, his head in his hand, looking completely unlike any of the other people there, was a tall doctor in a lab coat.

Kitty frowned. She thought that doctors shed their work attire once they left the hospital, but she was not very worldly-wise, so she supposed she could be wrong. She looked up to see Crane staring expectantly at her, and she stopped in her tracks. He was apparently done with his business talk with the barkeep. He arched an eyebrow at her, then indicated for her to go up the stairs that led to the rooms on the next floor. She heaved a sigh, a slight relief, and started up the stairs. He watched her as she passed, his light eyes moving to her backside as she started to climb upstairs. Then, with a slight, indicative wave for the others to follow, he turned and went after her up the stairs.

"Honestly." Jeanette watched with apparent disapproval at Crane's intimidation of the hooker. Not that she approved of the business, of course, it was just the principal of the thing.

The bar looked worse on the inside than the outside. It was crammed full of people, mostly the grungy sorts you typically found in the Narrows. A small staircase led to what were almost certainly tiny, cramped rooms on the second floor. The smell of alcohol in the place was overwhelming. Jeanette tried to put her hand over her nose, and remembered that she was cuffed.

She turned with a scowl to find Kitty right next to her. "Wha...?" she began, only to realize what the woman's problem was. Jeanette had shown her the tiniest bit of protection, and Kitty was the type of person who latched onto any person stronger than herself. Jeanette had taken to calling the behavior "puppy dog syndrome"; one look at the woman, whose dull blue eyes were scanning the crowds with a sad, abandoned look confirmed the accuracy of the name. Jeanette wasn't sure how she felt about this attachment. One one hand, it might be easier for her to convince Kitty to leave with her when the time came.

On the other hand, it could get annoying.

Her head jerked around when she saw Crane's motion, and she followed like the obedient captive she was. She wondered briefly why no one in the bar was questioning the fact that she was handcuffed...then she smiled. She really had to remember that this was the Narrows. "Hey, doc, could we grab some drinks later?" she called after Crane. As much as he was trying not to show it, her obnoxious comments were getting on his nerves.

Seeing as it was the only fun she'd be having with this little group, Jeanette figured she deserved that much.

Napier looked up languidly as the bartender passed by and lifted his empty shot glass. "Mm," he mumbled to the bartender, "here." The barkeep moved back to him, looked at him with a frown, then refilled the glass. Napier brought the shot shakily to his lips and downed it, then set it down on the table again, putting his head back in his hand with a heavy sigh. The bartender stared at him for a long moment.

"Doctor?" he asked.

"Mm?" Napier looked up at him blurrily. The bartender indicated his white coat, and Napier looked down at it, then chuckled lethargically. "Oh," he said, looking back up at the bartender. "Uh, _plastic surgeon,_ actually." He grinned boozily at the confused barkeep, then offered up his shot glass again. "Got another for me?" he asked.

The bartender filled the shot glass with a frown, his eyes staying on Napier as Napier downed the shot. "You _are_ planning on staying the night, _right,_ Doc?" the barkeep asked as Napier set down the shot glass and wavered on his bar stool, finally putting his head back in his hand. "Wouldn't want you driving like this. Might hurt yourself, or get in trouble with the police."

Napier exhaled deeply, then answered hazily, "Not stayin' here if I c'n help it." He shook his head slowly, wetting his lips. "Can't… stay in one place too long. People… notice."

"Oh, I hear you on _that,_" the barkeep agreed, nodding enthusiastically. "Wouldn't want people thinking you were of a _less than reputable character,_ right, Doc?"

Napier chuckled indolently. "Sunthin' like'at," he slurred. Then he leaned forward towards the bartender, knocking over the shot glass on the counter, which rolled a little ways away, and, wetting his palate, said in a slow monotone, "Would you like t' know how I got my scars?"

The barkeep frowned, a little put-off, glancing over both shoulders, then turned back to Napier. "Um, sure," he said hesitantly.

Napier licked his lips, blinking slowly. "There wus this guy," he said. "Th'… it wassa guy inth' office. A patient, like. An' he… I wus just workin' there as a summer job at th' time, tryin' t' save up for college an' whatnot, but… an I wusn' married yet, at th' time." He swallowed, trying to get his story right. "Well, he wus s'posed to be goin' under th' knife, but th' anes- the nanisth- the gas stuff, din' work right fer him." He indicated awkwardly with one of his hands. "So asee's 'bout t' start gettin' work done on 'im, he wakes up, an', uh… all he sees is these… people, standin' over 'im with knives n' stuff." He wet his lips again. "So he takes up wunna th'… scalpels, on th' oper- on th' table," he did not even try that time, "an' he goes fer the surgeons."

He blinked slowly again, then went on. "I was outside, doin' my job, secker-tary work or sunthin'… an' out comes this guy. An' he looks at me, n' I musta looked terr'fied, 'cause he comes up t' me, he comes up t' me, n' he grabs me by th' shirt, n' he's got this scalpel, n' he says, uh, he says…" He paused, then looked intently up at the bartender. "_WHY - SO - SERIOUS?_" He shook his head, wetting his lips, looking away. "He was _nuts_… mm. So he grabs me by th' face, an' he slices op'n my face, like this, with th' scalpel."

Napier looked over to see that the people sitting on either side of him at the bar were listening intently to his story, all looking slightly horrified. He nodded. "Hurt like fuck," he mumbled. "Better now." Then he turned back to the front, picked up his shot glass, and offered it out to the bartender. "'Nother, please," he said, putting his head back in his other hand.

The bartender stared at him, then set down the bottle and shook his head. "No, I think you've had _plenty,_ Doc," he said, sounding mortified. Napier raised his head and looked blurrily up at the man, staring at him. Then he looked around at all the other people sitting at the bar, who were staring at him, also frowning in what could have been horror. Then his eyes returned to the bartender. "Making up awful stories like that to scare people. It's cruel, that's what it is. You should use your imagination for better things."

"You think I'm making this up?" Napier slurred loudly, his brow furrowing. He stood shakily from his seat, staring down the bartender, who was much shorter than he was. "Does this look fake t'you?" He indicated his scars to the bartender.

The bartender shook his head, seeming to shrink in comparison to Napier. "No, no, those look very real," he said quickly.

Napier nodded and sat back down on his bar stool. Then he looked around at all the other people, who were still staring at him. "What're _you_ lookin' at?" he asked the collected entity. Instantly, they all turned away and went back to their own conversations. Napier exhaled deeply and picked up his empty shot glass, examining it closely, then set it down on the counter-top face-down and pushed himself up from his stool. "I'm gunna go now," he mumbled.

Napier tried to take a step away from the bar, but lost his balance, tripped, and landed gracelessly back against his barstool, clinging onto it to prevent himself from falling onto the floor. "Fuck," he groaned.

The bartender looked over the top of the bar at him, frowning slightly. "Why don't you stay the night, Doc?" he said. "Just for tonight. You can pay in the morning." He pulled out a room key from behind the bar and offered it to Napier, dangling it above his head.

"Mm," Napier grumbled, burying his face in the arm holding him onto the barstool. Then he pulled himself up into a standing position again and looked at the bartender. He wet his lips, staring at him, and then, finally, took the key. "You're good people, barkeep," he said. "Wha's your name? So I c'n 'member it at a later date. Case I wanna return th' favour or sunthin'."

"Oh, I'm Mike," the bartender said, friendly, holding out his hand.

Napier stared down at the hand offered him, but did not take it. "Mike," he mumbled to himself. Then he turned and started for the stairwell that led to the rooms of the inn. Mike and a few of the other patrons watched as he finally staggered to the stairs and started to make his fumbling, weaving way up them. Then the bartender turned to a few of the patrons who were sitting at the bar.

"He seems interesting," he said.

"I bet his wife's gonna _kill_ him when he gets home tomorrow," said one man.

"Naw," Mike said, looking back in the way Napier had disappeared, "I bet his wife doesn't even know he's here…"

Sleep was a fucking myth.

Jeanette sat on her bed, glaring at the opposite wall. There was no possible way she'd get a wink of sleep that night, and it was mostly dear doctor Crane's fault. She grimaced and rolled her shoulders. The idiot had forgotten, or just decided not to, take off her handcuffs.

She groaned and finally decided to try and get out of here. If Kitty was any sort of intelligent, she'd come along without a fight. Then again, if she _did_ decide to fight, Jeanette could do much about it. She cursed Crane again and quietly let herself out of her room.

The hallway was darker than the bar downstairs, and that was saying something. She'd heard Kitty settle into the room right next to hers, so she headed for that door. Suddenly, her foot caught under something lying on the floor, and she fell to the ground with a crash. Almost instantly, her head started throbbing.

"DAMNIT," she swore loudly before she could stop herself, twisting on the ground to try and right herself; the handcuffs made it impossible. She did manage to flip onto her back, though, and saw what had caused her trip. Flicker had her back leaned against Kitty's door, her feet splayed out in front of her. On her face was a half-surprised, half-guilty expression.

"What the hell are you doing?" Jeanette snarled at the girl. Crane had probably asked the little pyro to watch Kitty and make sure she didn't get away. Jeanette almost snorted; as if Kitty had the guts to do something like that. Flicker (no, Carly, she reminded herself) stared at Jeanette with huge eyes.

"I...I didn't...sorry..." she stammered. "I was just...making sure she was...alright." This drew a surprised look from Jeanette. What did Flicker care if Kitty was alright? Unless the situation was different from what Jeanette thought.

Her head turned sharply at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. One of the drunks from the bar must have decided to stay the night. The sound threw her into sort of a panic. "Help me up!" she told Flicker in a fierce whisper, and Carly immediately obeyed, grabbing the woman's shoulders and pulling her into a standing position. She was twice as intimidating standing up, Carly decided, backing away a few steps. Then she wondered why Jeanette had tried to go to Kitty's room in the first place.

Jeanette hurriedly put her back against the wall to avoid suspicion. Though it hadn't been conspicuous down in the bar, you never knew what sort of people hung around these places. She leaned back in a casual pose and winced at the handcuffs digging into her wrists, but glared at Flicker and jerked her head back. Carly finally understood and copied the woman, keeping her expression nonchalant as the newcomer entered the hallway.

Crane instantly snapped awake as soon as he heard a door opening. He frowned darkly. Of course, it would be that new woman he had picked up, the cocky one, who would be making trouble at this time at night. He checked his watch. There was no sleep for the weary, after all, and if he were to find a good word to describe how she made him feel, with her inane, mocking comments and intimidating nature, _'weary'_ would be an ample candidate. With a heavy sigh of irritation, Crane made his way to the door of his own sleeping compartment and looking out at where Jeanette and Flicker were standing together out in the hall. He knew, from his first experience with Flicker, that she had a tendency towards wild abandon, and Jeanette had asked earlier, though whether it was only in jest or in all seriousness, he could not really tell, to go down to the bar and get a drink. He scowled at them.

"What are you two doing up?" he asked venomously. "Not intending to go down to the _bar,_ I sorely hope." He was starting to get very annoyed with this _Jeanette_ character, as he now knew her name to be, and he slowly lifted his hands, flexed with frustration. "If I have not made it… _inexplicably clear_ before now," he said, folding his flexed hands in front of him and closing his eyes, willing himself to keep his emotions under control. He took a deep breath, trying to settle himself before going on. "I," he said slowly, trying to stop his voice from shaking with pent-up exasperation, "do not approve… of _drinking._"

Crane swallowed, opening his eyes, clasping his hands tightly in front of him to stop himself from losing his head. "There will be… _no drinking_ as long as I am still in charge." He looked up pointedly at Jeanette, his hands still clasped. "And I," he added, "am still… _very much…_ in charge."

He looked over then, and saw the tall doctor from the bar making his way slowly and uncertainly up the stairs, and he turned back. "Now go back to your rooms," he said, "before we have any_ incidents._" He grimaced at the sight of the maudlin doctor as he turned to go back into his own room, when the doctor passed by him, making his way to another of the doors with his own key. The doctor had a room somewhere down the hall, and as he started trying fruitlessly to open his door, Crane scowled at the pathetic sight. He was about to go into his own room when he heard,

"Hey, couldja help me?"

Crane froze, his shoulders arching and locking in a sudden defence mechanism, and turned slowly to see the doctor looking at him. Crane avoided his gaze, deciding that he would not humiliate himself - or this other doctor - by looking directly at his face, but sighed. His own defiant, cruel nature dictated that he stay away and let the lout figure out the door by himself, but common sense told him that this man was much bigger than he was, and if he said no, there would be a good chance that the other doctor would not take kindly to it. Crane had taken enough beatings to last a lifetime, in his opinion, and he was not about to add this one to the list.

He closed and locked the door to his own room, stashing the key in his pocket, then made his way across the hall to the doctor's door, taking the key offered him but still refusing to look into the face of the doctor. The man reeked, Crane noted with a dark frown, flattening his nose in disgust. The doctor leaned against the wall, thankful for some relief, and looked down at Crane, watching him as he unlocked the door. The doctor's brow furrowed slightly, and he licked his lips. "Do I… know you?" he asked, squinting at Crane.

Crane swallowed, finishing unlocking the door, and let it swing open, then handed the key back to the doctor, still not looking at him. "Uh, no," he answered coldly. Then he turned back towards his own room, glad to get away from the overpowering presence and almost nauseating reek of alcohol that the doctor had on him like an overcoat. He started to unlock his door, then paused, frowning. Now that he mentioned it… there _was_ something that seemed faintly familiar about the other doctor's voice. He looked up to see if he could catch a glimpse of the doctor, but the doctor had already disappeared into his room.

Crane frowned, then looked back to his own door and opened it, letting himself in. It was probably all in his head, he reasoned.

Most things were.

"Like I could _get_ a drink, anyways," Jeanette spat as Crane's door closed. It seemed she'd be stuck with these handcuffs the whole night. She wanted to rip out her hair in frustration (again, the handcuffs!), but instead slid to the floor next to Flicker.

The younger woman followed suit and watched Jeanette curiously. Carly had never before come across an adult who was actually...cool wasn't the right word. Easy to connect to, maybe. This is what prompted her to speak up. "Where were you going to go?"

Jeanette looked up sharply, but sighed. Okay, so it had been pretty obvious what she was intending to do. To everyone but Crane, that is. "I have no idea. Out of _here_," she finally replied, tilting her head back against the wall. Carly looked at the floor, then sheepishly shrugged.

"Could I have come with?"

Jeanette looked at her sharply, and Carly looked fixedly at the floor. Jeanette knit her eyebrows together in confusion, then looked back at the wall opposite her. She must be hearing things; might as well try to get some sleep. She pushed back against the wall and struggled into an upright position, then nodded at Flicker and went back to her room.

Carly was left alone in the dark hallway. She shivered and pulled out her lighter, flicking it open. The tension left her quickly at the sight of the tiny flame, and she sighed. What a confusing few days. She wasn't sure now if she wished they hadn't happened, or was grateful that they had. Meeting Kitty sure had been interesting, either way. But there was something about the woman, something that felt familiar in her timidity.

She suddenly sat up straight as she realized why Kitty had struck her so much. She instantly locked onto her last memory of home. She'd stood in the front door, screaming something about having rights at her parents. They were screaming right back. In the corner of the room, though, was a silent figure almost her same height, with soft brown hair, pale skin, and sad blue eyes.

Brian. Carly laced her arms over her knees and buried her head in them. She had forgotten Brian. How could she have forgotten Brian? For God's sake, he was her _brother_.

. . .

"_I don't want to be here."__ he said quietly, putting his other hand over both of hers, covering them.__ she said.__ he told her. "I shouldn't have done that. You don't deserve it."__ she told him. "I love you."__He looked up, away from her, at all the people sitting around them. There were all kinds of people there, both men and women, and all of them seemed to be older than he was. He felt a knot form in the pit of his stomach, and his ears turned slightly red. He had to be truly pathetic, he thought, to be sitting here at the age of only twenty-three. He looked back at his wife, who was smiling at him. She took his hand and put it on her stomach, and, suddenly, he felt infinitely less self-conscious. He smiled back at her. She was just barely starting to show, but it was still exciting and wonderful, all the same. He looked back out at the group sitting around him, beaming. It did not really matter how pathetic he seemed compared to them, now; none of them had their significant other there supporting them like he did.__ he said. "I'm so glad you guys decided to show up today… and I think we have someone new in our group today."__ The man looked pointedly at Jack. "Would you like to share with the group?"__ he asked.__ He looked down at her, like a child needing encouragement from his mother. She smiled at him, nodding. He looked back at the rest of the group. "I'm an alcoholic,"__ he said quickly, and sat back down. She took his arm, resting her head on his shoulder with a proud, contented smile. He looked over at her, his heart pounding, then looked back at the leader, who was smiling at him kindly.__ he said, holding out a hand for Jack to shake. Jack eyed the man's hand cautiously - he hated shaking hands, it was just one of his quirks - but he did not want to appear unfriendly, so he leaned forward and took the man's hand. It was rough and his grip was firm, but it somehow felt… fatherly. Jack took his hand away, a little surprised, and the man, Gerald, turned to the rest of the group.__ he said, "I'll share."__ He cleared his throat and said, "I have been sober for twenty-eight years now."__ An impressed murmur went through the group. Jack looked in surprise over at Kitty, who looked just as surprised, before looking back at Gerald. He raised his hands, quieting them. "I used to be a bad drinker, though. Then I met the love of my life."__ He looked knowingly over at Kitty and Jack, who were both listening intently. "Well, we were very much in love,"__ he said, "but her mother didn't approve of me, so she said we couldn't see each other anymore… which made me very sad, because we were planning to get married."__ He sighed. "That's when she told me she was pregnant. But, even so, her mother wouldn't allow us to see one another anymore. So I had to leave without her, and without my child."__ He tried to smile, but it was forlorn. "We never saw each other again. And I never got to see my son."__ He looked around at them, particularly Kitty and Jack. "So I decided that I wanted to set my life straight, just in case… one of these days, my son comes looking for me. In case he wants to meet his dad."__ he asked haltingly.__ Gerald said. "He's twenty-eight now. And from what I hear, he lives here… in Gotham."__Jack nodded, lowering his hand. Kitty took his hand in hers, holding it tightly.__ he said, "now that I've shared… who wants to go next?"_

"Why not?"

"I don't like it here."

"What's wrong with it?"

"I'm scared."

"You'll be fine. I promise."

"I'm embarrassed."

"Don't be. That's why it's anonymous."

She took his large, tan hand in her two little ones and leaned her head on his strong shoulder, moving her chair up right next to his. He looked over at her and gently kissed the top of her head, resting his chin on her hair with a heavy sigh. "I'm so sorry, Kitty,"

She smiled kindly, snuggling closer to him. "I'm not sorry,"

"I dragged you into this,"

"You didn't drag me into anything, Jack,"

Finally, a man, about middle-aged, came through the door and seated himself in the only empty chair left. He sighed, resting his elbows on his knees, and looked around at the group seated there, folding his hands together. The first thing Jack noticed about him was his stunningly blue eyes. He decided to say nothing as the man smiled warmly around at the group. "Welcome, everybody,"

Jack stared at him, swallowed hard, then nodded and shakily got to his feet. He took his wife's hand in his, squeezing it tightly as he stuttered, "I-I'm… Jack, and I'm…"

"Well, let's all welcome Jack to our group," he said. The other members buzzed with murmured words of welcome. Then the leader of the group turned his striking blue eyes back on Jack. "I'm Gerald,"

"Would anyone like to share today?" he said. There was silence. "Okay, then,"

He shrugged sadly. "She wrote to me to tell me that it was a boy… she didn't get to name him, though, or even spend much time with him, because her super-religious mother took the child to raise him as her own."

Jack cautiously raised his hand, and Gerald looked at him, indicating that he could speak. "How… old, is your son… now?"

"Twenty-eight,"

Gerald smiled around at all of them then. "So,"

_. . ._

Napier opened his eyes to find that he was still fully dressed and partially falling off the bed, where he had walked to before collapsing onto it and falling fast asleep. He sat up woozily in bed and looked out the window. From what he could see through his blurred vision, it was still dark outside. That meant he had only been asleep for a few hours, at the most. As he tried to stand up, he stumbled back until he caught his balance on the wall. He definitely had not slept this off. He would have to go back to bed and face the imminent hangover that came with motor function in the morning.

But he could not go back to sleep, not yet. The dream he'd had was too strange to ignore, and, as he made his way to the door, he tried to remember what had been so striking about it that it had woken him up. He fumbled for the door handle, and, finding it, he opened the door and stumbled through, almost losing his footing as he made his way out into the hall. He closed the door behind him, tried to figure out how to lock it, and finally gave up. He leaned against the wall, trying to collect his head enough to figure out what the dream had reminded him of…

And then he remembered it. That man… _Gerald._ The leader of the AA group, he had been… the irony was almost embarrassing. Something about his eyes had projected Napier out of his inebriated dream world back into the land of the living… and then he remembered. It was that he had seen those same exact eyes on someone earlier that evening. In fact, that was probably what had caused the dream… or memory, as he conceded it to be. A lost memory, resurfaced. They usually did that… his memories returned to him while he slept. But they were so few, fragmented, and far-between that they hardly counted at all, as far as he was concerned.

"Mm." He frowned, trying to find his centre of balance, and stood away from the wall, his hand against it for support. The man he had seen earlier, with the striking blue eyes… he had asked if he knew him, but the man had responded that he did not. Well, even if he did not know the man, he certainly knew Gerald, if for a reason that had become entirely pointless, and, in his current state, logic worked in funny ways - if at all. It did not matter what time in the morning it was, he wanted to find out if the man he had talked to earlier was, in any way, related to someone named "Gerald" with blue eyes.

He paused, trying to remember which door the man had gone into, but then remembered that he had not seen him go into any door at all… so it would be purely guessing. He wavered on his feet. "Fuck," he mumbled blurrily, looking at all the possible doors. It was not a large motel, and he only had a few guesses as to doors, but to him, it seemed like an eternity of possibilities. Finally he decided on a door near the end of the hall across the way, and, bracing himself, staggered over to it, weaving slightly in his path, until he got to the door in question. He paused, leaning his forehead against it, then starting banging his fist against the wood. "Hullo?" he slurred. "Wake up. I gotta ask you sunthin'. Is'real important."

Carly had given up her post hours ago, finally convinced that Crane wasn't going to do anything uncalled for, and gone back to her room. She fell into bed and was in a dreamless sleep within minutes; it was scary how tired she was.

Thus, when she woke with a startled snort at the loud knocking on her door, she wasn't exactly what you'd call a happy camper.

She found out very quickly that she was in no state to be moving, much less walking, as she teetered unsteadily over to the door with help from the dresser and wall on the way there. She nearly tripped over her boots, which were lying next to her bed where she'd dropped them. Her tank top and jeans were rumpled uncomfortably from sleeping in them; her hair, she was sure, was a mess; and from a quick glance in the dirty mirror resting on the dresser, the usual bags under her eyes were even darker from her mascara rubbing off. If this was Crane at the door, he was going to get a black eye. "Th'hell d'you wann?" she muttered sleepily, undoing the lock and yanking the door open.

He looked up at her, frowning slightly. This was not the person he had meant to find, and she did not look too pleased to be woken up in the middle of the night. He looked her up and down, licking his lips slowly, then running his tongue along the inside of his cheek. "I," he started to say, but stopped, not sure what to say. He looked up at her face again. She was a pretty girl, as far as he could tell, and there was something about her that seemed oddly familiar. He could not place it, but he was not really trying. He swallowed, looking her up and down again, leaning heavily in her doorway, then mumbled, "Sorry 'bout that."

He started to turn away, then turned back to her, looking her up and down again. "What th'hell do _I _want?" he asked, repeating her question. He wavered slightly, moistening his palate. "Well," he said slowly, "for starters, I'd love t'be somewhere _else…_ mm." He wet his lips, blinking slowly, then swallowed. "I'd love… t' be a little more_ 'preciated_ in this life… a ticket outta Gotham souns good ri'now… an'…"

Napier looked at her again. "But, well, _mos'ly_ what I wan' righ' now is…" He paused, then pushed himself off of the door frame, grabbing her by the back of her hair and pressing his lips clumsily to hers. He moved into the room with her, unceremoniously shutting the door behind them.

Great. Carly crossed her arms when she saw who it was at her door; that drunk doctor from before. She rolled her eyes through his driveling, wishing he'd just get out of her doorway and let her go back to bed. She was _tired_, and she needed to be able to think clearly tomorrow.

Unfortunately, it didn't seem to be in the doctor's plans to leave her alone.

Napier pinned her down on the bed, his hands holding her wrists out of the way as he maladroitly worked his lips down her face to her neck, breathing hot and heavy on her collar-bone. He pinned her to the bed with his knee as he shed his doctor's coat, then grabbed her wrists again and continued his ungainly, lustful kissing of her throat and collar-bone. "You wanna know what I want?" he whispered ardently in her ear, as he started to pull down the thin straps of her tank-top, "you wanna know what I want? I wanna feel th' skin uva woman agains' mine. Iss'been too long… I've been so _patient!_"

He reached down, fumbling with his zipper, and finally got his pants undone. Then he leaned back down to her, gently taking the slope of her neck in his teeth, and finally moving to kiss gauchely down her shoulder. "I jus' can' wait any longer," he slurred, almost a growl. "I've waited too long as it is… too fucking long… an' I've been so lonely…" He gripped her wrists, pressing his weight against her, and whispered in her ear, "Jus' give the word… jus' tell me you wan' it s'much 's I do…" He clumsily kissed her jaw, breathing in her ear. "Jus' say the word…" he whispered, wetting his lips. "Jus' like _she_ did… jus' like she _should've…!_"

Carly was suddenly very much awake and alert to the feelings of the stranger's lips running across her neck and her back pressed against the lumpy mattress in her room. She shivered and tried to free her arms: no luck. What the hell would Flicker do in this situation, she wondered? Probably knee this creep in the nuts, smack him around a little, and be on her merry way. It was too bad Carly wasn't feeling very Flicker-ish at the moment. And _Carly_ was a bit preoccupied to be bashing heads.

That small, timid part of her that she'd tossed away when taking on her Flicker persona wanted to just give the guy what he wanted. Going down without a fight might even encourage him to leave faster. Carly moaned and shut her eyes when his teeth scraped her neck. At least he _sort_ of knew what he was doing, which was more than she could say for half of the guys she'd played around with at college.

But she wouldn't let herself do that. For Kitty's sake, or Brian's sake, or for the sake of whoever the hell she was really trying to prove herself to, Carly would _not_ let this happen. "H-h-hey..." she said in between a few short, gasping breaths, "y-you don't...you s-shouldn't do this." The stutter in her weak voice was sickening, but saying _something_ was keeping her hopes up that she could get out of this situation. "P-please. Please, you d-don't want to do this."

Napier stopped short. She was pleading with him, begging him to go away and leave her alone. She was _scared._ His brow furrowed and he leaned back, looking at her, his hands loosening on her wrists. She was _afraid_ of him. He wet his lips, his dark eyes straying, and stood up off of her, looking down at himself. He was a _big guy;_ he was probably terrifying to people like her, and people like Jeanette… but, unlike Jeanette, this girl had not fought back. She had simply begged for him to relent - begged for his mercy.

And somehow, that made it so much worse. He looked at his large, tan hands, then up at her again. To her, and to the rest of the world, he was not a human being…

He was a monster.

Napier staggered back a step, bumping into a piece of ratty furniture, then fell back against the wall, staring down at his hands again. He paused, breathing heavily, and then lifted his hands and buried his face in them with a dry sob. He wished she had just struck him, or otherwise fought back, but she had not; she had pleaded with him, almost as if she were pleading for her life from a homicidal madman. And that was what he was, Napier realized - a madman. He looked up at the doctor's coat on the floor of the room and a wave of terrified realization dawned on him. He was a murderer. He killed mindlessly, most of the time without even realizing he was doing it. It just seemed so… _natural._

He put his face back in his hands and slid down the wall into a sitting position, and his shoulders began to shake as he broke down into sobs.

He _was_ a monster.

"I can't," he wept, running his hands stressfully through his hair, "I can't do it… all I wanted was to bring her back, but I can't… I can't…" He swallowed, sobbing, taking deep breaths, and put his forehead in his hand. "None of this… drinking… meaningless sex… _murder,_" he spat out the last word venomously, "none of this will bring her back… she's gone… she's just_ gone._" He buried his face in his hands again, his sturdy frame wracked with sobs as he pulled his knees up to his chest and let all of his pent-up emotions pour out.

It was like everything he had ever done was coming back to haunt him, all at the same time, and all because she had decided to plead with him rather than fight back. Her utter display of weakness, of fragility, had, in some strange way, triggered his own. He suddenly realized that his times of weakness were the only times when he ever felt truly human. He wondered if there was a connection… and then realized that he had probably discovered the connection a long time ago, and that was why he had become the way people knew him to be now.

A monster.

He looked up, wiping his eyes and mouth with the back of his hand, then pulled himself shakily to his feet. He sniffed, trying to regain some semblance of dignity, then, holding his balance against the wall, he lifted a lax hand and pointed to her with it. "If you tell anyone," he said, breathing heavily, "if you tell anyone you saw me crying… I'll hunt you down n' fuckin' kill you. D'you hear me?" He wiped his mouth again, then said, louder, "D'you hear me? Tell _anyone_ about this an' I'll fuckin' _kill_ you." He panted, holding himself up against the wall, then looked down at his fly, which was still open. He fumbled with the zipper, pulling it up, then his gaze fell on the lab coat on the floor, and he swallowed. Then he looked back up at her. "You c'n keep 'at," he said, indicating it. "Sunthin' t' remind you 'f me."

He wet his lips, turning back towards the door, and started unsteadily towards it, keeping his balance against the wall until he got to the door, then pulling it open and staggering out. He put a hand to his head, trying to steady himself, and then put the hand to his chest, trying to calm his pounding pulse. He closed his eyes, breathing heavily. He opened his eyes, staring at the staircase ahead. There was no other option. He had to get out of there. He wavered once, then started uncertainly for the stairs, keeping his balance against the wall, and finally making his slow, careful way down the staircase, making sure not to trip over his own feet and fall.

Mike the bartender was cleaning a glass when Napier made his way to the bottom of the stairs, and he looked up when he heard the reeling steps of the inebriated doctor. He half-grinned at Napier. "Lose your coat, Doctor?" he asked. "Heard a bit of commotion upstairs. Did you and one of those young ladies… find some common ground?"

Napier moved to the bar and leaned on it, looking over the counter-top at Mike, staring at him flatly. "I'm gonna go," he told him. He moistened his tongue against the roof of his mouth, then swallowed and took the key to the room out of his pocket, sliding it across the bar to Mike. "Here's your key," he said. "I can't stay here. Too much… too many people. Too much going on." He shook his head, as if talking to himself, and closed his eyes. "Someb'dy noticed. I gotta go."

Mike nodded, taking the key and putting it back behind the counter. "You sure you're gonna be okay, Doc?" he asked, frowning at Napier, concerned. "Gotham's a dangerous place this time of night. Thugs are gonna be looking for easy targets."

Napier languidly opened his eyes and looked at Mike, wetting his lips slowly. "D' I look like an easy target t'you?" he slurred, wavering slightly.

"No," Mike answered. "I wouldn't like to run into you in a dark alley, that's for darn sure. Guess it's a good thing we're on good terms, huh?"

"Mm," Napier replied, noncommittal. Then he started to turn to leave.

"Hey, wait," Mike said, "you're at least going to pay your bar tab, right?"

Napier paused, then turned back around and looked at him. Then he leaned forward on the counter towards him. "The guy with the blue eyes will pay my tab," he told him.

"You mean the guy with the really blue eyes? Little guy?" asked Mike, indicating Crane's height with his hand. "Creepy as all get out?"

"You got 'im," Napier said. "He'll pay my tab in the morning."

Mike nodded and went back to cleaning the glass. "Well, good luck getting home, Doctor," he said, still a bit apprehensive.

Napier nodded, wetting his lips, then pushed himself off of the bar and staggered to the door of the Bar and Inn, letting himself out and disappearing into the night.

The man with the familiar blue eyes would have an interesting surprise, come morning.

Napier wished he could have been there to see his face.


	25. Chapter TwentyFour

Kitty felt the warm fingers of sunlight on her face before she realized what they were. Her dull blue eyes fluttered open, and she stayed where she was for a moment, staring thoughtfully at the peeling wallpaper of the wall that she faced, lying on her side in the rather uncomfortable bed. She sighed, thinking about the events of the past few days, and how she had been unintentionally dragged into a plot that she was wholly oblivious to, but that somehow involved her and a mysterious, though increasingly less appealing, figure called 'Jack Napier'.

She frowned slightly, thinking about it. If what everyone said was true, then she had once been married to this shady character, and her own, sweet little daughter was, in fact, his daughter, too. She wished that she could have been left with the description Maria had given her… tall, well-built, with the same hair and eye colour as Jeannie Rose. That made him sound so much more appealing than everything else that had been added onto the description afterwards. How did she always seem to attract the worst kinds of men? She was not an outgoing person, and not flashy in the least, with her dull blue eyes, straight, mousy-brown hair, and petite stature. If anything, she thought that she would be the least appealing of any of the women in the group. And yet, Crane had not singled out Flicker, or Jeanette…

Perhaps that was just it, she reasoned. Perhaps it was _because_ she was so plain, _because_ she was so meek, and so timid, that men like Crane, and possibly Napier, felt they could bully her into doing whatever they wanted - and it was true. Kitty was not brave; she was not outspoken; and, worst of all, she was easy prey for anyone who knew what they wanted and were determined to get it. She was so timorous that she never argued, and so often ended up having people walk all over her… or worse.

She stared at the wall for another long moment, then turned onto her back. Her eyes shot open in surprise, and she opened her mouth to exclaim, but Crane put his hand over her mouth, quieting her. He stared at her for a long moment. Then he leaned down to her, covered her mouth with his, and started kissing her deeply. Kitty frowned in horror and turned her face away, pulling the covers up over her mouth and nose. Crane stared at her, seemingly unfazed by her reaction. "What's the matter, Kitty?" he asked.

"Please, just go away," she whispered. She stared hard at the wall, making a point of not looking at him. She did not want him to see the fear in her eyes, or else he might take control again, like all the other times he had beaten her into submission with just a knowing look.

Crane stared at her, then opened his mouth, ready to speak, when he heard a knock at the door. He looked up, frowning slightly, and got up from the bed, making his way across the room to the door and opening it. The bartender stood outside the door. Crane raised his eyebrows, a cold, tight, polite grin quirking at the corners of his mouth, and cocked his head slightly at the man. "Can I… help you?" he asked.

"I'm glad I got the right room on the first try," the bartender said with a friendly smile. "You rented out so many, I wasn't sure which one was yours."

Crane's cold, sarcastic grin widened slightly. "Imagine that," he said slowly.

"I was just wondering if you were ready to pay yet," the bartender reminded him. "For the five rooms you rented out."

Crane turned his head in agreement. "Of course," he said, pulling out his wallet and opening it.

"Oh, also," the bartender said, "uh, there was a guy last night, a plastic surgeon, said he knew you."

Crane paused, looking up from his wallet, still trying to look politely amused. "Is that so?" he asked. Then his attention returned to his wallet.

"Yeah," said the bartender, "he told me you would pay his bar tab."

Crane froze. He pursed his lips, his jaw locking, and looked back up at the bartender, his polite grin slowly disappearing. "Did he, now?" he asked, sounding much less amused.

"Yeah, right before he left," said the bartender, nodding.

"I see," said Crane coldly. "And… how much will that run me?"

"Ah, about…" The bartender thought for a moment. "Sixty bucks."

Crane swallowed, then cocked his head slightly at the bartender with a cold, unamused leer that he hoped came off as a kind of smile. He opened his mouth slightly as if about to speak, his eyes straying, and took a breath, holding it. Then he looked down at his wallet again, letting out the breath and closing his wallet, stuffing it back into his back pocket. Then he looked up at the bartender with a tight, bitter, cold grin.

"Would you like to see my mask?" he asked.

Carly didn't wake up the next morning. Her eyes opened, and she scowled deeply at the sound of shouting and whimpering in the hallway. She even got out of bed and did a few invigorating stretches. But then she took the corner of her sheet and singed it with her lighter, only to see the tiny flames dancing for a moment before she put them out with a grin.

Flicker was back.

The doctor's jacket lay on the floor by her bed, and she glared at it. She considered burning it for a minute, but decided instead to lump it into a ball and take it with her. She finally groaned "oh, for chrissakes..." as the shouting quieted, and opened the door to find Crane and the bartender in the hallway. The second man was curled up on the floor, eyes wide, sweating like a pig, and muttering something about a scarecrow. She eyed him with curiously for a moment, then turned to Crane and her eyes narrowed again. She shoved the jacket into his chest.

"You see, _this_ is what happens when we stay at shady places in the fuckin' _Narrows_," she said disgustedly, leaning forward into his face. "You know what I've been through while we were here?"

Jeanette's eyes opened at the commotion in the hallway, and she stood up with some effort from the bed. She'd had to sleep sitting up because of the handcuffs; as a result, she'd only gotten a few hours of shuteye. She sighed and opened the door.

Flicker paused when Jeanette appeared in the hallway, and rejoiced at a bigger audience to share her woes with. "I almost got fucking _raped_ by that sunovabitch doctor from downstairs." Jeanette tried to look like she cared, and failed miserably. Flick mistook her look of apathy to be one of confusion. "Y'know, that big guy, in the doctor's coat?" Jeanette still stared at her with the same look, and Flicker stamped her foot. "Oh, c'mon! That big guy, y'know, all tan, and dark eyes, and...and the real weird hair, sort of blondish-greenish? Or maybe it was blue..."

Jeanette was just beginning to block the girl out when she added the bit about the doctor's hair. She frowned. Why did that sound so weird? Besides the obvious reason, of cou...

Then it hit her.

Her eyes went wide and she asked hurriedly, "Greenish hair?!" Flicker nodded mutely, looking a bit disappointed that Jeanette cared so little. She'd almost been _raped_, for chrissakes. But Jeanette _didn't_ care. Because the guy that Flicker had described was Jack Napier.

She completely forgot that Crane was standing there and ran to the door she'd seen the doctor enter last night. She looked momentarily at the barkeeper on the floor, decided that he wouldn't care (and she wouldn't if he did), and kicked the door open. She almost lost her balance, hands still tied behind her back, but regained it in time to stumble into the room.

She let out a cry of frustration. He was already gone.

She stalked back into the hallway, leaned against the wall, shut her eyes, and began cursing in a fast mixture of Italian and English.

Crane stared at Jeanette, listening in interest to her bilingual muttering. He picked up Italian mixed in with the English, and listened hard to it; he had never learned Italian, but it was on his list. Perhaps he could get started early. At least it seemed easier than Mandarin Chinese or Afrikaans. He stared at the ground for a long moment, listening to Jeanette, then glanced back at the bartender and scoffed. "Staying anywhere else," he said, looking back at Flicker, "would have been too… _conspicuous._" He did not even attempt to smile at her.

Kitty opened the door of her room a bit more and peered outside at the gathered crowd. Then she looked down at the bartender and a slightly horrified expression crossed her face. "What…?" she asked, shocked, indicating him.

"He had an unfortunate meltdown," Crane said coldly, cutting off her question. "And apparently Flicker here… had an _altercation_ with the doctor from the bar."

Kitty looked up at her with scared, concerned eyes. "The big, tall one?" she asked worriedly, "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

"No," Crane said before Flicker could answer. "They simply had an _unfortunate run-in._"

Kitty stared at Flicker, her expression not wavering from one of anxiety. "I hope you were able to defend yourself okay," she said. "People like that… they have to be told straight, or else they'll do whatever they -"

Crane raised a hand, and instantly Kitty stopped talking, taking a step backwards, and looked down at her feet in silence. Crane poised with his hand hovering for a moment, watching Kitty, then lowered it again, satisfied. He looked down at the doctor's coat, then brought it to his nose. Instantly he wished he had not; he pushed it away in disgust, grimacing. "Well, it's apparent why your doctor saw it fit to try to _interfere_ with you," he said, clearing his throat and holding the coat like something vile. "And it wasn't because of your _shining personality._"

He frowned at the coat, then looked up at Jeanette again. "And what are _you_ so frustrated about?" he demanded. He hated being out of the loop on things, and Jeanette's reaction had definitely thrown him. He started slowly towards her, stepping over the muttering, incoherent bartender, holding out the doctor's coat in front of him towards her. As soon as he reached her, he stood right in front of her, holding the doctor's coat out towards her, as if letting her see it plainly would remind her of something, and she would tell him what it was.

"Did you know this doctor?" he asked, indicating the coat. "Was he… an _acquaintance_ of yours?"

Then it hit him. _Green hair._ A _tall, muscular man_ with _green hair._ He turned and looked back at Flicker, then at the coat, and then up at Jeanette with slitted eyes. "No," he whispered with a widening grin. He looked at Jeanette pointedly, then looked back at Kitty, and then his gaze returned to Jeanette. "_No,_" he repeated, more amused than ever. He indicated with the doctor's coat. "It was _him,_ wasn't it?" he asked. His horrid grin grew even wider. "And you knew him," he said, quieter, almost to himself.

He began to chuckle, then his chuckle grew louder, and finally he broke into a full laugh. "We have a slight change in plans," he said, turning to the rest of the group. "It seems we don't need Maria to be our hound dog after all. It seems… we already have one." He lifted the doctor's coat, as if in a sign of victory. "And she's going to lead us straight to Jack Napier."

At this, he turned and looked pointedly at Jeanette, grinning wickedly. "_Aren't _you?" he asked.

Jeanette ignored Flicker's pouty outburst ("yeah, well, fuck you"), Kitty's nervous stare, and even the other guests of the hotel. It probably wasn't even consciously done; her mind automatically blocked out all distractions. She simply stared at Crane.

That was most definitely the stupidest thing she could have done. Besides announcing to the world that she had more than a slight connection to Jack Napier, of course. Considering the situation, though, that was pretty much what she had done. Her mind cranked into high gear. She couldn't let Crane get what he wanted, whatever that was. At this point, that was all she was sure of: keep Crane away from Napier, and get Kitty out as soon as possible.

She took a deep breath, praying that he was more gullible than he seemed.

"Screw you," she began, head lowered and narrow eyes locked on his. _Tone down the language, it could be suspicious._ "I'm no hound dog." She paused. "And I certainly don't know how I even _could_ be." She sniffed, then added in an undertone, mostly for her own satisfaction, "Even if I _did_, I sure as hell wouldn't help."

Crane arched an eyebrow at her. "Screw… you?" he repeated, unimpressed. He paused for a moment, considering her. "I believe…" he said, turning his head slightly, "that, uh… _fuck you,_ would have been a more effective response." He grinned sarcastically at her, then turned away from her, trading the doctor's coat between his hands. "All right," he said, "you don't know where he is. You refuse to cooperate. But you do _know_ him." He turned back to her, his eyes slitted. "If I were to let you free, you would probably run straight to him," he said.

His smile had disappeared and was now replaced with a thoughtful frown. He had the possibility of letting her go and then chasing her once she had a head start… it was always possible that she would run straight to Napier. Then again, she was the headstrong kind of woman who never did what anyone expected her to do. He looked her up and down, considering her. "I sense…" he said slowly, "that there's something here… that makes you not want to cooperate with me." He paused, watching her closely. "And yet," he added, "it holds you here, because you have not run away… even though I'm sure you're the kind of girl who _would_… handcuffs or no."

He turned away from her, folding his hands behind his back, holding the doctor's coat in one hand as he thoughtfully moved his wrist up and down. "Something that keeps you here…" he mused, looking over each person in turn, until his eyes came to rest on Kitty. He stopped, staring at her, and a cruel grin began to creep across his face. "Kitty," he said, perhaps a bit too sarcastically upbeat. She looked over at him, her expression worried and scared. Crane faked a breathy laugh. "Oh, don't look at me like that," he said, tilting his head, "you look so… unhappy." He moved towards her. "You aren't unhappy here… are you, Kitty?"

She stared at him for a long moment. His lucid eyes bore into her dull blue ones, almost tranquilizing. She hesitated, then shook her head silently. "No," Crane said, "of course not. You're perfectly happy here… aren't you?" Kitty's eyes flicked to Jeanette, and she bit her lip. Crane frowned slightly. "Kitty, I'm talking to you," Crane said, a bit sharply. Kitty's eyes quickly darted back to Crane's, and he smiled coldly at her. "You're perfectly happy here," he repeated, "_aren't_ you, Kitty?"

Kitty swallowed, then nodded, holding onto her skirt. Crane took her face in his hand, gently stroking her jaw. She closed her eyes, trying to suppress a shudder. "You're _very_ happy here," he said, emphasizing his words, "_aren't _you, Kitty?" She opened her eyes and looked up at him, saying nothing. Crane stared at her, then leaned his face close to hers, and leaned past her lips, whispering into her ear so only she could hear. "Don't fight me," he whispered. "If you mess this up for me, I swear to you, I will make you sorely, _sorely_ wish you hadn't." He traced his lips along her cheek, then kissed her on the lips. She did not kiss back, but she did not resist. He held all the power, and if she fought him, he would see to it that she would never forget it. Then again, she did not have to play along. She just had to do the minimum to keep her daughter out of harm's way.

Then he turned back to Jeanette. "You see?" he said. "She doesn't want to leave." He grinned coldly at her. "You're getting yourself worked up over absolutely nothing. No one is being kept here against their will." He took his hand away from Kitty's face, and she cringed slightly, her blood running cold. Then he looked back at her, and then leaned past her, looking into her room. "Where is that _darling_ child of yours?" he asked, too upbeat. "You should probably wake her. We must be getting along soon. - What was her name again?"

Kitty hesitated, glaring at him. Then she whispered, "Jeannie Rose."

"Jeannie Rose," the name came off his tongue like venom. He chuckled. "Such a…" He tried to find a compliment, then gave up and turned away from Kitty, towards the rest of the group, and his gaze fell on Goodhart. He pursed his lips, arching an eyebrow at him. "It's about time you were up, you great lug," he said bitterly, checking his watch. "If you'd slept any later we would've left without you. Which probably would not have been half bad for you…" He looked around. "This place is probably higher-class than anywhere _you've_ ever lived anyways," he muttered.

Then he looked back at the group. "Well, since Jeanette has so graciously agreed to lead our group," he said, looking pointedly at Jeanette with a knowing smirk, "we're going to head out. First, we're going to check the bar to see if he left anything behind… his playing-card, perhaps a piece of clothing…" He shrugged. "Drunkards are careless," he remarked. "He could have left anything."

Kitty frowned deeply at this, but said nothing, going back into her room to get Jeannie Rose.

Oh, shit.

Jeanette looked down the hallway at the crowd of people that were slowly edging back into their rooms. So he'd figured it out. "What makes you think I _know_ this guy?" she added in a halfhearted attempt. There was no way he'd buy it; she had effectively backed herself into a corner. She'd have to fight tooth and nail to get out of this one.

Her blood boiled at Crane's obvious intimidation of Kitty. It was pointless. Why the heck would he go after her, besides a little fun? Then again, Jeanette thought, that's exactly the sort of thing Jonathan Crane might do. Oh, that little cockroach was going to pay...

She waited until the woman had gone into her room before rounding on Crane. "You can't just leave her alone, can you?" she asked lightly, leaning against the wall with nonchalance. "It's so sad, when someone who claims to be a brilliant doctor has to get his kicks from intimidating some poor, helpless woman." She shrugged, as if it couldn't be helped. "Then again, this _is_ the same 'brilliant doctor' who didn't recognize the man he's been looking for, when you were standing face-to-face with him. Don't get me wrong," she said, shrugging again. "I'm sure the guy's pretty evasive when he's _stoned_."

She smirked. This brought back memories of her life at home, when she used to bother her parents so much. After finally realizing that nothing she could do would make them proud, she'd taken to finding the best ways to get under their skin. It had been sort of a game. A sick, mean game, but her favorite game nonetheless.

It was fun to get back into the habit again.

Goodhart had stumbled out of his room, fully clothed in his Arkham gear, several minutes earlier, just in time to get some unneeded abuse from Crane. He'd learned to just take it at this point, and responded with a grunt before heading down the stairs. He'd just do the bar-sweep himself.

He checked every table, on top and underneath, before heading to the actual bar itself. There wasn't anything of interest. Then he noticed a flash of silver out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head and found a small handgun.

"Hm." He checked the gun to see if it was loaded (it was; that barkeep wasn't quite as stupid as he looked) and tucked it into his pocket. No need for Crane to know about this. Besides, Goodhart had to have _some_ way to get rid of Maria once they found her.

And Flicker, and Crane, of course.

But all in good time.

Crane froze in his tracks when he heard Jeanette start talking. He felt his shoulders tense when she mentioned him terrorizing Kitty. It was a good thing Kitty was not there to hear her, or else she might have been given a false sense of empowerment. But the verbal abuse did not stop there. Crane felt his hands start to shake with rage when she began ridiculing him, mocking his title as a doctor. But the last straw was when she insulted him for not recognizing Napier. His breathing quickened, his expression darkening into one of hatred. "_Céard?_" he demanded, spinning on her. "_A dhath ar bith!_" He breathed heavily, glaring at her. "_Ní lú orm an diabhal or an donas ná é,_" he continued, moving towards her with a finger raised, almost threatening. As soon as he reached her, he threw the doctor's coat to the floor in anger, then looked back up at her. "_Ná ceanndána bean!_" he shouted.

Then he spun to face Flicker, the same rabid, hateful expression on his face. "_Do shealsa atá ann,_" he said, moving towards her now. "_Tú míchúramach, bómánta leanbh!_" He raised a hand and struck her across the face with it, knocking her slightly off-balance and leaving a throbbing pink mark on her cheek. "_Tú neamhoilte!_" he shouted at her. "_Tú gan mhaith!_" Then he spun back to Jeanette. "_Aithním thú or sibh comhcheilg chun dúnmharú a dhéanamh._" he hissed, taking another step towards her. "_Aithním or sibh!_" He pulled out the handgun from inside his jacket and pointed it at her. "_An lámh in uachtar a bheith agat,_" he said dangerously. He cocked the gun, pointing it at her.

Crane stared at her for a long moment, his breathing slowing. Then he arched an eyebrow at her, letting the gun's hammer back into the safety position and tucking it back inside his jacket. "_Is nach fiú é,_" he reasoned to himself, clearing his throat and slicking back his dark hair, which had fallen out into his face. He took a deep, settling breath, then looked over at Jeanette as if nothing had happened. Then he looked back over towards Kitty's door, which was cracking open. Kitty emerged, holding Jeannie Rose and looking very confused.

"I heard somebody shouting out here," she said, looking at Crane in puzzled worry. "It didn't sound like English."

Crane grinned coldly at her. "It was just someone from downstairs," he assured her. "He'd… lost his way. Not a native speaker. Very inconvenient." He smoothed out his jacket, then looked towards the stairs. Then he looked back at the rest of the group with a tight, sarcastic smile. "Well, I think it's about time we got on our way now," he said, cocking his head slightly. He winked bitterly at Jeanette, then indicated the stairs. "Ladies first," he said callously.

Crane's tantrum almost had Jeanette on the floor, dying of laughter, until he did something a bit unnecessary. Needless to say, the smug grin slipped off of her face when she found herself staring down a handgun.

Instinct forced her to look over the gun. It was dirty, completely smudged with fingerprints, and definitely cheap. It was the sort of thing that she'd used in her earlier years, back before she learned about higher quality weapons and silencers.

By the look of the gun, though, and the insanity in Crane's eyes, it would be able to do exactly what Crane wanted.

She stared at its muzzle, then looked up at the doctor's face. He could actually do it, she realized, and took a step back. Her hands hit the wall behind her. He could shoot her right now, and just walk away. Her eyes widened and stayed locked on his. Her breathing slowed to a crawl, along with the seconds. There was a long, horrible silence. Then he dropped his arm, and she let out the breath she hadn't known she'd been holding.

Shocked to admit that she was _relieved_ when Crane turned his attention from her to Kitty, Jeanette took a deep breath. That was...scary. She watched the doctor warily, weighing her options. She'd have to be more careful. This wasn't the same as egging on her parents; this man was dangerous, and he had a weapon.

Thus, when he motioned her down the stairs, she went without a fight and hoped to whatever god was listening that Napier would be able to fend for himself.

Flicker pressed a hand to her burning cheek. Her head hurt. She wanted to go lie down, but something in Crane's look made her think that wasn't a good idea. Or maybe it wasn't his look; maybe it was the fact that he'd just hit her.

She kept her head down and shoulders dropped, looking up through her bangs at him with a mixture of anger and fear. She turned her head away from Kitty when the woman came out with her daughter and swiped angrily at the tears of pain in her eyes. Then she followed Jeanette down the stairs, a bit shocked at the other woman's newfound obedience.

That bastard was going to fucking _pay_.

Crane watched with keen eyes as Jeanette started down the stairs, followed by Flicker. Then he looked up at Kitty, indicating for her to go down as well. Kitty stared at him, frowning slightly, but decided to say nothing, lowering her eyes and going down the stairs as he indicated. It seemed strange that Jeanette and Flicker were suddenly so subdued; they seemed to be almost as obedient in Crane's presence as she was. It was more than strange; it was unnerving.

She held Jeannie Rose close as she reached the bottom of the stairs and emerged once again into the bar. Unintentionally, her eyes were drawn to the bar. The only glimpse she had managed to get of the elusive Jack Napier had been his wide back, clothed in a doctor's coat. So did that mean Jack Napier was a doctor? If so, did that mean Jeanette was a doctor, too?

Kitty looked up at Jeanette's back. Her hands had been cuffed behind her back so that she was unable to do much of anything. Kitty frowned. She was sure that Crane was so callous and untrusting that he would probably keep the keys on his person at all times. If only she could get those keys…

"What are you thinking, Kitty?"

She nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard the soft voice in her ear. She turned and looked at Crane, then turned back away, closing her eyes. Even looking at him was painful, with his ice-blue eyes cutting into her like knives. She took a breath, then answered, "Nothing."

He took a breath. "Do you know what it means when someone says 'nothing', when someone asks what they're thinking, Kitty?" he asked. He paused, then went on without even waiting for her answer. "It means that person is thinking about something that the asker wouldn't like to hear. Therefore, to save themselves from getting into trouble with the asker of the question, they say the first thing that comes to mind. Do you know what that is?"

Kitty paused, then answered, "…Nothing?"

"Nothing." He swallowed, pursing his lips. "And do you know why 'nothing' is the first thing that comes to mind, Kitty?" he asked.

Kitty hesitated, then shook her head. Humouring him was the only way she was going to get out of this.

"It's because that's exactly what happens. It's a reaction to fear. It's also sometimes described as _blanking out._ Like stage fright." She turned to look at him, frowning slightly, and he grinned coldly at her, slitting his eyes slightly at her. "Are you afraid of me, Kitty?" he asked. She said nothing, staring at him. His grin widened. "Answer carefully, Kitty," he told her. "You will be tested on it later."

She stared at him for a long moment. Then she answered quietly, "How did you get to be such a lonely person?"

He stared at her, and his grin slowly faded into a dark grimace. He locked his jaw, glaring at her. "I," he said slowly, "am not… lonely."

She frowned slightly at him, putting a hand to Jeannie Rose's head. "Then why do you take such pleasure in the pain of others?" she asked softly.

He cocked his head slightly at her. "Because others… are so easy to take pleasure in the pain of," he answered simply. He looked her up and down. "Especially others… like _you,_" he added. Before she could answer, he turned away, looking over towards the bar. He frowned when he saw Goodhart fooling around behind the bar. "Now's not the time to fix yourself a drink, you great gorilla," he said. "We have to get out of here. We have places to go." He turned back to Kitty, giving her one last, dark, demeaning look, then walked past her, towards the door.


	26. Chapter TwentyFive

Harvey Dent paced his jail cell, his eyes on his shoes, his somewhat bedraggled hair falling in his face, his expression set in a deep, thoughtful, worried frown. He had not given Gordon very much time to get to the docking facility in the Narrows, and even if Gordon _had_ gotten there in time, there was no certainty that he would have been able to take down the Joker. Dent turned sharply in his pacing, wringing his hands behind his back in agitated anxiety. What if the Joker had given them the wrong address? He was sick and twisted enough to do just that… he would think it was_ funny._

Dent turned and sat on the bench in the cell, putting his elbows on his knees and running his hands fretfully through his blond hair. "Rachel…" he moaned quietly. Just then, a noise made him look up. A security guard was heading towards his cell, talking to someone who was walking behind him. Dent tried to crane his neck to see who the other visitor was, but the officer soon moved aside to reveal -

"Rachel!" Dent sprang to his feet, crossing instantly to the front of the cell, gripping onto the bars tightly and pressing his face between them to look at her. "Rachel, you're all right! Oh, god, Rachel!" Rachel looked up at the sound of Dent's voice and, seeing him, rushed to the cell, taking his face in her hands and kissing him. He put his hands through the bars and she took hold of them. "Oh, _god,_ Rachel," Dent said again, "I was so worried about you… I'm so glad you're okay…"

"I'm _fine,_ Harvey," she assured him, squeezing his hands.

"God, Rachel, you have no idea…" Dent said, starting to get a bit panicky, "I tried to save you, I went to get Gordon, I was going crazy trying to save you…"

"Gordon _came,_ Harvey," Rachel said with a smile. "Gordon helped save me, he came and untied me…"

"I rushed to get Gordon, and then these police started following me, and it turned into a high-speed chase, but I was just so desperate to save you, Rachel, I'd do anything for you…" Harvey kissed her hand, a little frantic still. "Then when I found Gordon they arrested me… they arrested me for refusing to cooperate with police… Rachel, it was awful… there was barely any time left… they got me with a tazor…"

"They _tazored_ you?" Rachel exclaimed, her eyes widening in horror. "My _god,_ Harvey!"

"I tried so hard to save you, Rachel… I tried so hard, but everything just got in the way…" He was close to tears. "Oh, god, I'm so sorry, Rachel… I tried…"

"Harvey, Harvey!" Rachel said, cupping his face in one of her hands and kissing him on the forehead, "I'm fine! Look, I'm perfectly fine. See, Harvey?" He looked up, sniffing, trying to hold back his emotions, and nodded. She smiled and kissed his forehead again. "See? I'm just fine. Batman came and took care of it -"

"Batman?" Dent looked up suddenly, his voice flat and cold, all indication of tears gone. "_Batman_ came and saved you?"

"Well… yes," Rachel said, sounding a little disconcerted at his sudden change. "Is something wrong?"

"_Batman_ saved you?" he asked again, looking over at her. "I thought you said _Gordon _saved you."

"Well, Gordon _helped,_" Rachel said. She frowned. "Is everything all right, Harvey?"

Harvey shook his head slowly, looking away. "Batman saved her," he muttered to himself in a shocked undertone. "_Batman. Batman_ saved her instead of me." Then he looked back up at Rachel. "Huh?" he asked. "Oh, yeah, I'm fine… just a little…" He cleared his throat, then smiled at her. "I'm just glad you're okay," he told her, squeezing her hands in his.

Rachel smiled at him. Then, "Oh!" she said, "I almost forgot - Bruce Wayne called this morning and said he would be happy to pay for your bail. To get you out of here. Isn't that great?"

"What?" Dent exclaimed. "No. I don't want Bruce Wayne's money."

"But…" Rachel's smile faded a bit as she stared at him. "But… how will you get out of here?"

"I'll just serve my sentence," Harvey replied, a bit sharply. "I don't want Bruce Wayne bailing me out. I can take care of myself."

Rachel frowned. "How long is your sentence, Harvey?" she asked.

"Not long," he answered tersely. "Because I was doing it for a good cause. That, with good behaviour, and I should be out of here in no time." He frowned at her. "I don't want Bruce Wayne's help. He's just all over the place, sticking himself in where he's not wanted."

Rachel resisted the urge to smile.

"Okay," she said quietly, putting his hand to her face. Dent softened a bit, but still held onto his look of resolute stubbornness. Rachel sighed, taking his hand away from her face. "If you say so, Harvey."

"I…" he began, then stopped, nodding decisively. "I _do _say so," he told her firmly. "I want the city of Gotham to see that their… _White Knight,_ is a man who goes through with everything he begins, and is willing to take the fall for his wrongs."

"But you were only trying to save me," Rachel said gently.

"But I was _speeding,_" Dent said. Suddenly it all felt very silly, in retrospect.

Rachel frowned. "Okay, Harvey," she said, "you be a hero and wait out your speeding ticket." She let go of his hand, and he frowned deeply in confused irritation. She turned back to look at him as the security guard started to lead her off, offering him a sad, tight smile, then turned back around and let herself be led off.

Dent stared after her for a long moment, then turned back to his cell. "DAMNIT!" he shouted, and delivered an annoyed kick to the bench, only to fall back against the bars in pain, reaching down to hold his hurt foot. He dragged himself up to a sitting position on the bench, hissing in pain, and sighed heavily.

Maybe Rachel was right. Maybe he _should_ just take Bruce Wayne's money. Everyone else in Gotham had done it.

Then he pushed the thought from his head. If he was to make himself like every other person in Gotham, he would be no better than the criminals, freaks and prostitutes that seemed drawn there like magnets. He set his still-slightly-stinging foot down on the ground and folded his arms, staring at the floor.

He would _not_ become like everyone else in Gotham.

If he were to become like every other person in Gotham, then he would become, in effect, like the Joker.

And he was _not_ about to see himself become the villain.

_Breathe. Two-four-six. Three-six-nine. Check your suit, check your tie, check your hair. Are my glasses clean? Oh, man, did I forget...?! No, wait. They're okay. And I've got my briefcase, too.__Okay. I can do this.__...I can't do this._

Shawn paced the length of the GPD parking lot for what may have been the seventh time, running his fingers through his perfectly parted golden-brown hair. This wasn't possible. For the first time in his career, he'd hit a brick wall. He just _couldn't_ do what Mayor Garcia had asked.

He couldn't talk to Harvey Dent.

He looked back up at the police department and automatically took off his square glasses to clean them on his shirttail. He was just going to have to bite the bullet and go for it. His black suitcase, which he brought _everywhere_ during the workday, sat on the curb next to his car; he grabbed it and brushed a few nonexistent pieces of dirt off of it. He straightened his tie, yanked the wrinkles out of his gray suit, shook out his legs, and walked nervously up to the front doors of the station.

Inside, he was directed to a bunch of cells in the back. Shawn blanched. Dent was being kept _here_? Didn't the police realize that Harvey Dent wasn't some ordinary criminal? He sighed and shook his head, then remembered why he was there. His blood pressure cranked up another few notches as he followed the guard to Dent's cell. Apparently, the man wasn't being considered dangerous; the guard unlocked the cell door and ushered Shawn inside, then left immediately. _Probably for a donut and some coffee,_ Shawn thought. He suddenly didn't have much respect for the Gotham Police.

The thought was blown out of his mind when Dent looked up at him. The moment his blue eyes met Shawn's own, the aide dropped his gaze to the floor. He could already feel his ears burning. "Um...Mr. D-dent, right?" he said, tone cracking nervously. _Stupid, stupid, you're being an idiot!_ "Ahm, Mayor Garcia sent me over here to talk to you." There, that was better. "Ahm, he...he said, 'If you ever pull shit like that again, don't expect my backing'."

Shawn continued staring at the floor, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Then he shrugged and attempted a smile. "Sorry."

Harvey Dent looked up as soon as he heard someone entering the area, and found himself looking at a shy, intelligent-looking, but strangely young businessman, who introduced himself as being from Mayor Garcia. Dent listened attentively, taking note of when the young man met his eyes and looked to the floor. He was a jumpy thing, that was for sure. Timid as all get out. Dent watched him conscientiously, and listened to the message he had brought over with a kind of bitter half-grin.

When the young man was finished with his message, Dent put his hands on his knees and got to his feet, crossing to the bars to better speak with the young man. "Don't apologize," he said with a boxy smile, "you're not the one who wrote the message. Though you can go ahead and tell the one who did that he can take his message and shove it up his ass." He chuckled, grinning at the young man. "Actually, no, don't tell him that…" Dent reconsidered, "I'm probably in enough trouble as it is without further pissing off anybody. We'll just keep that retort as our little secret, okay?"

He looked the young man up and down, scrutinizing him. "Is that the only reason you came here?" he asked. "Geez, Garcia's getting to be a big windbag, isn't he?" He chuckled, then pointed playfully at the young man. "Don't tell him I said that, either," he told him. He grinned. "You're just getting to be my little _secret-buddy,_ aren't you?" he said. He bent slightly at the waist, trying to get a look at the young man's face. "You're kinda secretive, yourself, aren't you?" he asked. "I know there's a face down there… you wanna let me see it?"

When he got no response, he chuckled again, folding his arms and staring out at the young envoy. "Well, I'm sure you've got a name, messenger," he said with a friendly grin. "What's the matter? Bat got your tongue?" He smiled at the pun. "No, but really, it's good to meet someone who comes in here to try to talk some sense, rather than trying to pity me." He reached his hand through the bars to shake the young man's. "Harvey Dent," he said, then added, "but you already know that… old habits, you know."

Palmer looked up, startled, to find Dent's hand right in his face. He took an unintentional step backwards, and just stared at the extended limb for a moment. Then he seemed to catch himself. He quickly put out his own hand and replied, "I'm Shawn Plamer. Er..." He dropped the handshake and rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. "Palmer, that is. The mayor's personal aide."

He looked at the ceiling and sighed, then finally met Dent's eyes. Their bright blue unnerved him again, but he held his gaze. "If I could ask, sir, what did you do?" he asked, keeping his tone respectful and reserved. He nodded at the cell, and flushed again. Maybe it was too personal of a question. He was being too prying, he knew it. But Dent was acting so _comfortable_ around him, even though he was a total stranger and all...

Suddenly, he had a crazy idea. Why not ask Dent out to dinner, or something? He shook his head and frowned at that. That wasn't just crazy, it was _stupid._ You didn't go around popping out questions like that. It wasn't civilized.

"Shawn Palmer," Dent smiled at the young man's continued shyness, and shook his hand firmly, then let it go. He was friendly, even if he _was_ the mayor's assistant and Dent was _not_ the mayor's biggest fan. He crossed his arms, considering Palmer. "Well, it's good to finally have a name - and a face," he noted, pointing to Palmer, who had finally decided to raise his head to look at Dent. He grinned his signature boxy smile and winked at Palmer. "You don't have to be afraid of me. I don't bite."

He sighed slightly, looking around at his cell. "Well, I know it _looks_ bad," he said, "but, uh, I'm actually in here for… speeding." He looked back at Palmer, and a grin split his face; then he began to chuckle, and then, finally, to laugh out loud. "Oh, how stupid does _that_ sound, right?" he asked, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye. "Harvey Dent, Attorney at Law, Gotham's White Knight… locked up for a _speeding ticket!_" He started to laugh again, then looked back up at Palmer.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said, taking a deep breath to calm his bout of laughter. "Sometimes I get a little _over-enthused_ about things." He moved closer to the bars, putting a hand on one of them and looking around at his cell. "Ah, well. A little off time is doing me some good," he said, sighing, still smiling. "At least this place is a lot less hectic than work. And there are a lot less nuts here, too." He looked back at Palmer with a twinkle in his blue eyes. "I should be out of here no later than tomorrow, though. All things considered. _If_ things go my way."

He shrugged, taking his hand away from the bar and folding his arms again. "I feel a little reluctant to leave," he said. "Get out of one cell and go straight back into another." He chuckled and looked up at Palmer with a grin. Then he took one hand out of his folded arms and pointed to him, shaking his finger slightly. "I like you," he said, more thoughtful than anything. "You're good people, Shawn Palmer. Maybe one of these days we'll have another chat like this."

He folded his arms again with a slight sigh. "It's a tough world out there, Shawn. - Do you mind if I call you Shawn?" he asked, but did not wait for an answer. "Good people are hard to find in Gotham nowadays, Shawn. Don't let the bad people drag you down. Don't let them make you into one of them. Be the good in all of Gotham's bad." He nodded to Palmer, smiling, then looked away.

"Now that I'm done preaching…" Dent chuckled, "that cop should be around here somewhere… I'm getting pretty hungry. Maybe he'll have doughnuts and coffee again today."

Palmer lowered his eyes. He wasn't _afraid_ of Dent, that wasn't it. It was just that...well...

He scuffed his foot on the floor. Okay, so maybe that was exactly it.

Dent's own open laughter forced a bit out of Palmer; he grinned and half-chuckled. "It's not _that_ bad. I mean..." He paused, and finally smiled again. "No, you're right, that _does_ sound kind of silly." He ducked his head apologetically.

Then he looked up again, and spoke totally without thinking. "Speaking of eating, would you want to grab some dinner once you're out?" He immediately looked horrified with himself, and shifted his briefcase to his other hand. "I mean...um...just for discussing...y'know..." He took a few steps back and looked helplessly at the floor. "Wow, I'm really sorry. Never mind. I'll...um...I'll give the Mayor your regards."

With that, he turned around to leave the station, completely and utterly humiliated.

Dent instantly looked up at the mention of dinner, a little surprised. Had Palmer really just invited him out… on a date? He was a little taken aback. He did not know how to deal with a situation like this. He had never really considered himself a man's man. He had always been more attracted to those of the curvier gender, specifically the woman he had been willing to dedicate his entire life to… Rachel Dawes.

He frowned as he thought of Rachel. She had come in, offering him the money of her very public other flame, and had all but ridiculed him when he had explained to her that he wanted to take responsibility for his actions. And to top it all off, she had been completely at ease with telling him - _him,_ Harvey Dent, who had risked life and limb and gotten himself thrown in prison trying to save her - that she was just fine, and had not really needed him there at all, because _Batman_ had come to save her.

Anger was bubbling up inside of him. The more he thought about Rachel, the worse his opinion of her became. He, Gotham's District Attorney, the hallowed White Knight of Gotham, had proposed marriage to her, a lowly lawyer, and she had told him that she had to "think about it". He fumed at the thought. Then she had the gall to run back to Bruce Wayne and ask for his money. It did not matter that the money had been to spring Dent from prison. The fact that she had done it in the first place made her no better than a common whore.

Then his thoughts started spinning. He had to get back at her somehow… but how? Simply ignoring her would do no good; she would get a little bit peeved at him, but she always had the option of going back to her old flame, Bruce Wayne. There had to be some way he could hurt her, really hurt her. He bit his lip, thinking. Then an idea hit him. What better way than to make her jealous? He looked back up at Palmer, and a cruel grin began to split his handsome face. And what better way to make her jealous than…

He rushed to the bars, holding an arm out of them, towards Palmer. "Wait!" he called. He fixed his expression into his signature, friendly, boxy smile. "Dinner," he said with a wink, "sounds great."

Palmer's feet stopped before his brain actually processed Dent's answer. He slowly turned around, looking _very_ confused, and just stared at the man for a moment. "G-great..." he repeated, then his face lit up with a wild smile.

"Great! Okay! Awesome." He nodded his head to himself, then finally looked at Dent again. "I'll...I'll, um, give you a buzz. Or something." He turned around and nearly tripped over his own feet; his cheeks burned red. Then he righted himself and trotted out of the station, the goofy smile still on his face.

_Wow,_ he thought, sitting down in the front seat of his neat little cruiser with a sigh. Then he repeated it aloud. "Wow." He'd actually done it. He'd asked Harvey Dent, _the_ Harvey Dent, to go out to dinner with him, and...and he'd said yes. Palmer pumped his fist into the air once, yelping in pain as his knuckles connected with the roof of his car. He put the hand to his mouth and scrunched his eyes shut, but the smiled didn't go away.

Things were definitely changing for the better, he thought. He stuck the car into reverse and backed out of his slot with belated ease. As he inched through the bumper-to-bumper traffic towards city hall, he looked up at the clouds dreamily. They seemed sparse today, he decided; he could see little bits of surprisingly blue sky. He only got flicked off once on the roads. Shawn smiled and pulled into his reserved slot in the parking lot. Hell, maybe Garcia wouldn't even yell at him today.

The moment he got inside city hall, though, an irate figure burst out of the Mayor's office. It was Garcia himself. "Palmer, I've been _waiting_ for you to get back!" the man said irritably, tapping his toe on the ground as Shawn set down his briefcase. "What the hell took you so long?"

Palmer aimed his eyes at the floor and pressed his jittery hands together. Well, today had turned downhill pretty fast. He breathed a few times. "N-n-nothing, sir," he answered in a meek tone that seemed to suit Garcia.

"Well, I have a bunch of papers for you to file. And there are some calls you need to take," the Mayor said, eyeing his aide. "So get back to work." With that, he went back into his office. The doors whisked close behind him.

Shawn sighed and sat down at the desk. It figured. His luck could only last a little while.


	27. Chapter TwentySix

Livvy was prancing about the hallways, turning her newly-healed wrist in happy circles. The doctors had finally assented to taking the cast off of her arm, but the one on her leg still had a few more days. She smiled and hummed, but then looked up as a team of doctors rushed past. She followed them curiously, completely forgetting Jen's instructions from a few seconds ago to not leave this hallway. The team of doctors went all the way to the ICU, Livvy trying as hard as she could to keep up the whole way. She got even more interested when the group wheeled into Todd's room.

She followed them inside, where she found a very confusing scene. Tons of people were packed into the tiny room, mostly concentrated around her brother's bed. She walked a few steps inside and craned her neck in an effort to see what was going on. She hated being short. Finally, the group around the bed shifted, allowing her a moment's look at Todd.

His head was tilted back and his healthy eye rolled back in his head. His arms and legs were jerking around, trying to escape the firm holds several nurses had on them. A low, soft moaning noise was coming from his throat; it sort of sounded like a dying animal. Livvy's eyes were wide and she stepped back to the door, gripping the door frame in her small fingers. One of the doctors yelled, "His heart's failing! Get a defibrilator in here!" He ripped open the front of Todd's shirt.

Someone rushed by her holding a strange machine, and held it out to the doctor who had shouted. He nodded in thanks and unwrapped a few wires. He strapped them with some sort of pads to Todd's chest, waited until a small dinging noise issued from the machine, and pressed a button. Todd's body jerked up, then fell with a thump back to the bed. The doctors tried this several more times. Olivia heard a few of the doctors mutter something about a stroke. The vitals monitor next to his bed was beeping very slowly. She didn't know what that meant, but it didn't seem good. Maybe Todd could explain it to her later.

Then the beeping stopped completely.

There was a horrible silence, until one of the doctors turned around and noticed the girl. "Oh, God," he said, and immediately steered Olivia out of the room. On her way out, Livvy took a last look at her brother. He looked asleep. Why would he be taking a nap _now_?

The man stood with her awkwardly in the hall for a moment, then finally patted her head and said something about having to go back in. She nodded, and peeked in again before he shut the door. Todd still hadn't moved one inch.

She sat down with her back against the wall, and the realization finally hit her that something was wrong, really wrong. She looked at the floor for a few minutes, then got back up and knocked on the door to her brother's room. "Hello?" she called. She waited and, when there was no response, knocked harder. "Hello? Todd?" The group inside stopped talking. "Todd?" she called again, her voice louder and with an angry edge. "Todd, cut it out. It's not nice to play pranks."

She heard a little bit of muttering, and the door opened to reveal lots of blank, sad faces staring at her. She looked at them for a second, then tried to scoot past their legs. A woman grabbed her and steered her out again, and now Olivia began struggling. "Todd? Todd! Cut it out, it isn't funny!" She kicked the shin of the doctor holding her and the woman let go, grabbing her leg in pain. Olivia ran back to the door of the room, which was locked, and banged her fists against it desperately. "TODD! Todd, come ON! Stop it, Todd, it's really not funny. It's not funny, you jerk! Just get up! Come on!" Two more doctors ran out of the room and grabbed her, dragging her gently away from the door and back to her own room.

She cried all the way, "Todd! Todd, stop joking. Stop it...you're not...Todd, please, PLEASE. You can't... Todd..."

Back in the ICU, one of the doctors eyed a nurse and said, "I don't know what to do about this. Somebody call Gordon."

. . .

"It was a _speeding ticket,_" Gordon argued for what felt, to him, like the hundredth time.

"And refusing to cooperate with police," his overseer said, counting off on his fingers, "a high-speed chase, violence towards officers… Gordon, somebody could've gotten _hurt _because of what he did!"

"He did it to _prevent _someone from getting hurt - from getting _killed,_ actually," Gordon pointed out. "And it was only _because_ he was as persistent as he was, _because_ he did all of those things we're holding him for, that he even got to me in time for us to send units over to save her!"

"Officer," his overseer sighed, putting a hand to his head, "Dent was obviously obstructing the law."

"He was speeding," Gordon moaned. "You can't keep a guy for _speeding,_ for god's sake!"

"You can if you had to _taze_ him to bring him in," his overseer countered. "The man was out of control."

"He was trying to save a life," Gordon said with a sigh. "Harvey Dent is a good guy. You know that he would never go against the law, unless it was for a very good reason! You know that!" He looked up at the Commissioner. "I believe in Harvey Dent," he said, pulling the final card. "Do _you?_"

The Commissioner sighed and looked away, folding his arms with a frown. Gordon stood, waiting for his answer, for a long moment. Then the Commissioner looked back at him. "Providing he doesn't have any incidents while he's behind bars," he said slowly, "I don't see why we can't let him out by… say, tomorrow."

"Do you really think he's going to get in trouble between today and tomorrow?" Gordon asked with a smile.

The Commissioner looked at him. "You believe in him, Officer Gordon," he said grimly, "but Harvey Dent has a very short temper. I wouldn't put anything past him, really."

"But he's a good guy, at heart," Gordon said, putting a hand over his own heart. "A little hot-headed, but he can't help that. He's only human, after all."

"Hmm," the Commissioner said with a frown. "If you say so, Gordon."

"I _do_ say so," said Gordon, "and I -" He stopped short when his phone began to ring. He frowned, a bit confused, and looked down at it. "Gotham General…?" he wondered aloud. Then his eyes widened as he realized what the call was. "I'm sorry, sir, I have to take this," he said quickly before opening the phone and walking away from the very confused-looking Commissioner.

"Hello?" he asked. "Yes, this is Gordon…" He listened for a moment, then put his face in his hand. "Oh, god…" he whispered. His blood was running cold. He felt as if someone had reached in and was dragging out his innards hand over hand. He felt dizzy, and had to sit down. Gordon braced himself, willing himself not to cry. He knew this was coming; he had seen it coming ever since Todd had had that outburst. But somehow, now that he was being told that it had actually happened, it all just seemed so… _sudden._

Gordon put the phone back to his ear, clearing his throat. "And Olivia? How is she?" he asked, his voice hoarse. He listened as they detailed Olivia's situation, then nodded. "I'm coming right over," he told the person on the other end. He snapped the phone shut and put it in his pocket, wiping his eyes with the palm of his hand. He sniffed, straightening himself. He would _not_ cry in front of Olivia. It was too important for him to be strong for her, so she could be strong, herself.

"I'm going to Gotham General," he called to no one in particular, heading out the doors to his police cruiser.

. . .

The windows and blinds had been shut. There wasn't a single light on in the room, not even the nightlight; Livvy had already thrown it at one of the doctor's who'd begged her to come out from under the covers.

She hoped they'd just give up. She was out of things to throw.

And endless loop of images kept scrolling through her head. Todd, just a few days ago, telling her that they were going to get away from their mom and go live on their own. She'd totally believed him; after all, when had he given her reason to doubt him? Then move ahead to the fire, when he'd tried to drag her away from the burning slab of wood that used to be the door. She remembered the panic, the absolute terror at the sight of their only exit blocked, and then there was pain in her wrist and leg. Then she remembered being yelled at, and Todd saying that he wished he was dead.

And finally, there was the image of him lying on his hospital bed. At the time, she'd thought he was asleep. But now, after a few doctors had quietly and calmly tried to explain to her what had happened, she knew.

Todd was dead.

She buried her head into the blankets bunched up in her tiny fists, pressing her face into the sheets. Her hair was messy and tangled, and her eyes were rimmed with red. She was dully surprised that no tears had come; it felt like her numbness was holding them back, and she didn't know what might set them off. She leaned against the back of the bed and her vision swam. For the first time in her life, Olivia was really alone. Todd wasn't there any more for her to run to when she was in trouble. No one was. She buried her head into the covers again, shoulders shaking.

Gordon rushed up the steps of Gotham General Hospital and quickly pushed past the front doors. He was breathless by the time he reached the front desk, where the young receptionist greeted him with a surprised look. "Where's Olivia?" he panted, a bit frantic. "I need to see Olivia."

"I don't think Olivia should really see anyone at the moment," the receptionist said, shaking her head. "Her -"

"Her brother just died, that's why I'm here," Gordon said, nodding. "Please, I need to see her. Where is she?"

The receptionist stared at him for a moment, then turned and pointed down the hallway. "She's in her room," she said. Then she looked back at Gordon. "Have I seen you before?" she asked.

Gordon nodded again, still panting slightly. "Yeah, uh, I was here with that big guy, with the concussion -"

"Oh, the _clown,_" she said, nodding in slight horror at the memory. "I remember. You know, the same day you brought him in, we found one of our doctors dead!"

"Weird coincidence," Gordon muttered, turning away from her and starting down the hall towards Olivia's room. He did not need a doctor to direct him to the correct room. He took hold of the door handle and paused, catching his breath, trying to put all his emotions in order. He could not cry about Todd. In fact, he should not even mention Todd. That would probably be best. He sighed. He had no idea how to explain to someone as small as Olivia something as major as death, especially the death of a loved one.

He took a deep breath, then, bracing himself, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The first thing he noticed was that the room was completely dark. The blinds had been closed, and even the night-light was not turned on. He could barely see a thing, but he could make out a little shuddering shape underneath the covers of the hospital-bed. He let the door close quietly behind him and just stood there, debating whether or not to go to Olivia. She seemed so upset…

But that was why he was there.

Gordon let out his breath in a long, reassuring exhale, then moved forward to the bed and sat down on it, making sure not to sit on the little girl. He folded his hands in his lap and hesitated, trying to find the words to say. "Olivia," he finally said quietly, "it's, um… it's Mister Gordon." He paused. He did not know what to say to her. "I, um… I came to see you. I heard, um… I heard you weren't feeling too good."

_That_ was an understatement if ever he heard one. But Gordon was always careful with his words, and he did not want to say something wrong and turn Olivia against him, especially at this most crucial time. He sighed, trying to find the words to say. "Livvy," he finally said, choosing his words warily, "sometimes… we can't help it when bad things happen. Sometimes… bad things happen for no reason at all." He looked down at his hands in his lap. "And… sometimes bad things… happen to good people."

He took a long breath. "Y'know, Olivia," he said, "I, uh… I have a niece. And she… loved to do outdoor things. She loved to go horseback riding, and climb trees…" He looked up at nothing in particular; he could not really see anything in this darkness anyways. "Well, one day, she was attacked. A real… _bad man_ attacked her, and he… did horrible things to her." He skirted around the details, and went on, "Well, after that, she was totally paralysed. She couldn't move anything below her neck. And she was… very sad."

He looked over in Olivia's direction. "But you know what? She found ways to still enjoy life." He nodded, looking back at his hands. "She's now one of the top super-sleuths where she lives," he said with a sad smile. "The detectives bring a case to her, and… most of the time, she's able to give them the answer from the clues they give her, no matter how few." He sighed, then looked back over at Olivia. "So, you see… sometimes, with the right encouragement, anyone can make a good situation… out of a bad one."

He smiled sadly in her direction, though he knew she could not see it. Then he put a hand on the covers, where he knew she was hiding. "Can you… come out, Olivia?" he asked gently. "Can I give you a hug? Would you mind?"

Livvy's arms tightened around her knees when she heard the door open, but she stayed put under the covers. She ignored the sharp pain in her leg; it was protesting being held so tightly. _Mr. Gordon..._ Through the haze in her head she remembered the friendly policeman. She tucked her head into her folded arms and hoped that he'd go away soon.

But he didn't. He just kept talking. Every word brought the reality of the situation crashing down on Olivia. Her nose got runny, and her eyes itched and burned. She rubbed at them irritably, then wrapped her arms around her legs again. Gordon's story about his niece made her sad. So bad things happened to good people? _Why?_ And why bother trying to be good, if it just made the people you loved die or get hurt?

She slowly lifted the covers off of her head and looked Gordon angrily in the eye. "He..." She broke off, sniffing and rubbing the back of her hand against her eyes. "He said he was going to stick around. He said he wasn't going to let my mom or anybody hurt me any more." She bit her lip and turned her head away from the man. "H-he _promised_..." Suddenly, the anger melted away, and the tears she'd been holding back finally came.

She put her head in her hands and let the sobs shake her shoulders, drawing her knees up to her chest helplessly. "H-h-he _said_ s-so," she repeated, shaking her head.

"Oh, Livvy…" Gordon reached over and took the little girl in his arms, drawing her close to himself, holding her tightly against his chest, letting her cry on his shoulder. "Shh, it's okay," he said, even though he knew it was not. Everything was _not_ all right. The only stable person Olivia had ever had in her short life had just died a horrible death, and she had been there to see it happen. He frowned, trying to keep himself from crying, too, and rocked the little girl gently. "You're going to be all right, Olivia," he said gently. "I promise."

He gently kissed her little head, then looked up, sighing. He felt so terrible for her… she was all alone in the world now. Her next step would probably be a foster home, where she would be thrust in amongst a group of strangers and expected to live as normal, with no one to consider her individual needs, her pain… He rested his cheek against her head, frowning. Olivia, alone in a world that did not care for her… it was more than he could stand. But there was nothing he could do about it.

Then it hit him. There was something he could do about it. It would not be easy, and it would probably not sit well with Sarah for at least a little bit, but he was sure that it would not take much to sway his kind-hearted wife. He bit his lip, thinking. This was a huge step, and once he made it, there would be no going back. Then again, he thought, why would he even _want_ to go back once he made it?

He looked down at Olivia and stopped rocking her. "Olivia," he said gently, "I have something important to ask you… I know this is going to seem sudden, and maybe you won't want to answer just yet…" He took a deep breath and smiled kindly at her. "Livvy," he said, "would you like me to adopt you?"

Olivia collapsed into Gordon's lap, still crying. She was again surprised to find how much comfort she got from this. Maybe it was because her dad hadn't been around, ever. She pushed her reddened eyes into his shoulder and felt a little guilty about getting his jacket wet.

He kept telling her that everything was okay, which made her fists bunch up again. It was _not_. Nothing was okay. Todd was...Todd was gone, and he was the last little bit of her family left. Well, there was always her mom...Livvy's heartbeat cranked up another notch at that thought. Would they send her back to her mom? All _alone_? "No..." she mumbled into Gordon's collar. She wouldn't let them. She'd kick and scream and fight and run away if she had to. She would _not_ go back to her mom. She tuned back in to Gordon and opened her mouth to let him know.

Wait.

Adopt?

Livvy stared at the man for a minute. She knew what adoption was. It had been her dream since she was little. Some nice, kind family would come along, and find her and Todd, and decide that they wanted to add the two children to their family. Todd would get a brother that he could play with, and a dad to talk to. And Livvy...Livvy would get a mom who wouldn't try to break every bone in her body when she saw her.

So her eyes filled up with tears again and she shoved her head forcefully into Gordon's chest, nodding fiercely.

. . .

"Name, please?"

"Maria Goodhart."

The nurse at the front desk looked up with a smile. "Oh, you're one of that group who came in here the other day." Maria nodded, looking pointedly at the signin clipboard. She didn't particularly want to chat with this woman. In all honesty, she wanted to get what information she could out of Jessica, then go see how much pain Jack Napier was in.

She prayed that it was a lot. Gordon hadn't called her to inform her about Napier's condition. She had worked not to take that as a bad sign.

Now she focused on Jessica Fox. Maria hadn't expected to run into her again the day she left Arkham with her tail between her legs. In fact, talking to the former director of the asylum might bring up some unwanted memories. But Maria had to do it. She wasn't sure at this point whether it was for Gordon, or out of personal interest.

She pushed the thought away when the secretary gave her the room number. Maria thanked her with a tight smile and walked quickly through the hall of Gotham General. _Get in, get answers, get out,_ she reminded herself. It wasn't the time or place for a long psychological discussion. She just needed what Jessica knew about Crane.

With a knock to alert the woman that she was coming in, Maria opened Jessica's door. She settled down into a chair against the wall, pulling it a bit closer to the bed and getting comfortable. Something about the situation was eerily familiar; Maria ignored the feeling and said with a slight smile, "Hello, Ms. Fox. I'm not sure if you remember me."

Lucius had been sleeping with his cheek resting in his palm, his elbow resting against the arm of the chair he had pulled up to his sister's hospital bed, but as soon as he heard Maria's voice, he jerked awake, looking over at her in surprise. A slightly startled smile quirked onto his amiable face that soon turned into a friendly one. "Maria," he said with a sigh. "Oh, goodness. You scared me. Thought you were one of the nurses or something, telling me to get the heck out."

He chuckled, glancing between Jessica and Maria. "She's really tired at the moment," he said in a slightly lower voice, "but I'm sure I can answer any questions you have." He folded his hands together in his lap, crossing one leg over the other in a comfortable fashion. "You're Maria, the writer," he said. "I remember you. Mister Wayne told me about you once. He says you're a really decent person." He chuckled. "Mister Wayne doesn't give compliments easily," he said, raising his eyebrows, "so I take that to mean that you are one good person to have on the home team." He winked at her.

Just then, a quiet groan made him turn away from her. Jessica opened her eyes, staring at the ceiling for a long moment, then turned and looked at Fox. "Lucius," she said, seeming a little surprised. "You're still here?"

He smiled. "Nurse hasn't caught me yet," he said, taking her hand and squeezing it. "I'll stay here until I get forcibly removed."

"You should go home and get some sleep, Lucius," Jessica said worriedly.

He chuckled. "Oh, I think I'll manage," he said with a wide grin. Then he looked back at Maria. "You've got a visitor, Jess," he said, nodding towards Maria. "Seems our writer friend is still curious about some things. You gonna be okay if she asks you a few questions?"

Jessica hesitated, looking at Maria. Then she smiled. "Oh, yes, I remember you," she said. "Maria, right? I'm good with faces." She sighed and looked away. "I've seen enough of them in my day," she said quietly.

"Uh, Jess," said Lucius, ever patient, "Maria wanted to ask you a few questions. I told her you'd be happy to answer, once you woke up… we didn't want to disturb you, but…"

"Oh, don't worry about me," she said, looking back at Maria. "I love to help. It's what I live for." She smiled at Maria. "What can I tell you?" she asked amiably. "Ask away. Anything at all."

Maria returned Lucius' smile, though her eyes were clouded with confusion. Why would Bruce Wayne think highly of her? She hadn't done anything really special besides help out in the investigation, and that was out of personal motivation.

She sighed, glancing at the bandage around Jessica's head. Then again, in _this_ city, it didn't take much to stand out as a good person. In the end, she ducked her head, embarrassed. "Well, tell Mr. Wayne that I appreciate it. But I don't deserve it. I'm just doing a citizen's duty, you know." She trailed off to a mumble by the end. Citizen's duty? Cheesy.

Jessica began to wake up, and Maria instantly felt a little anticipation. She waited as long as was polite, then leaned forward in her chair, eyes locked on the woman. "Listen, I'm not one to really walk around the subject," she began, nervously pinching the base of her ring finger, "so I'll just throw this out there." She took a deep breath.

"When Mr. Wayne and Officer Gordon were here, and we were talking about Crane..." She paused a moment; the name felt better. She shook her head. "I think you left some things unsaid." She took her eyes away from Jessica's face, avoiding both of the sibling's gazes and instead searching the room.

Then her eyes went back to Jessica's face. "I...er, the police _needs_ to know, Jessica," she said, quickly correcting her slipup. Where had _that_ come from?

Jessica frowned, taking a firm hold of Fox's hand, and stared at Maria. "Doctor Crane?" she repeated, her voice quiet with fear. She looked away, thinking about it, trying to convince herself to talk about him.

Fox stared at her, his brow furrowed. "If you don't want to talk about it, I'm sure Maria understands, Jess," he said. He turned to Maria. "You understand, don't you, Maria?"

"I'm _going_ to talk about it, Lucius," Jessica said firmly, looking at him. She turned and looked at Maria. "I _can't_ be afraid of him," she said, shaking her head slightly. "That's exactly what he wants. I can't let him have what he wants." She looked up at the writer, her face set, determined. "Jonathan Crane," she said, her voice firm as she said his name, "is a madman and a monster. But like every madman, and every monster, he has weaknesses… and secrets." Her frowned deepened slightly. "Just like every other person on earth, Jonathan Crane has something that makes him… tick."

Fox looked up at his sister, watching her face closely, frowning, but deeply interested. Jessica took a deep breath before going on, "Doctor Crane came to Arkham Asylum a few years back… seven, eight years, I can't remember exactly… more than five, I'm sure… and he just seemed to have this… _affinity,_ for the very dark subject of insanity, that he quickly rose above his peers and soon took over the title of director." She looked over at Fox, who was listening intently, his elbows rested on his knees, his hands folded together, chin resting on his folded hands as he stared at her.

"So he was a young guy?" Fox asked. Then he chuckled slightly. "I say _was._ The guy's, what… thirty?"

"Thirty-three," Jessica corrected him. Then she turned back to Maria. "He always seemed so cool on the surface. It's uncanny, _scary, _even, how long he can keep his head under strenuous conditions. But he has a temper. I've only seen him lose his head once, but…" She shuddered, then looked back up at Maria. "He would take out his frustration on his patients… do experiments on them," she said. Then she sighed, looking down at Fox's hand in hers on the bed. "But everyone knows that," she said quietly. "It was all over the news a while back… that's old hat."

Then she looked up at Maria in interest. "There's someone in town you should talk to," she said. "He used to be a factory worker, but more recently he's been doing non-profit things… he started a local AA group, and he's been doing some reform help for less serious convicts…" She looked away, frowning slightly. "What was his name…?" she said quietly, trying to remember. Then she looked back at Maria. "Gerald," she said. "That was his name. Gerald. Never gave a last name… but I remember him well." She smiled slightly. "He had the most interesting eyes," she mused.

Then she looked back at Maria. "He's pretty easy to find," she told her. "If all else fails, you can always find him at one of the AA meetings. A very friendly individual… though I've never gotten him to give a last name." She shook her head, looking down at her hand. "Strangest thing," she said. Then she looked up again. "Gerald would sometimes come to Arkham, do odd jobs just to help out… he always seemed so interested in seeing Doctor Crane, but Doctor Crane was never in whenever he wanted to see him…" She shook her head again, thinking about it. "It was the most bizarre thing," she said. "Almost as if… he didn't _want_ to see him."

She smiled at Maria then. "I hope I was some help to you," she said. "Heaven knows I'm just a hindrance to everyone else, lying in here like a lump."

"You are not a _hindrance,_" Fox said, grinning reassuringly at her. "And even lumps need time off. You get your rest. I'm sure Maria's got plenty of information for now."

"You can come back at any time, if you need any more information," Jessica said, looking at Maria with a kindly smile. "I'll be here… though hopefully not for much longer. I suddenly feel the need to get back on my feet and go back to work, if only to show that misogynist Crane that he can't get the better of me."

"Now, Jess," said Fox with a slightly disapproving smile, "you should really rest first." He chuckled, patting her hand. "Once they take that bandage off your head, though, I doubt there's a thing in the world I can do to stop you from kicking his skinny white butt." Then he turned to Maria. "Good luck on your search," he told her with a friendly smile. "I hope you catch that creep before he does any more damage to Gotham. Heaven knows it would be good to see him behind bars for good."

Maria realized she'd been leaning forward in her set, almost at the point of falling off of it. She quickly sat back.

_Gerald. Factory worker turned AA supervisor and convict reformer. Interesting eyes._ She memorized the facts quickly, eyes drifting off towards the door as she thought. She didn't know anything about the local AA chapter. None of her friends would, really, either; she didn't make it a habit of becoming chummy with drunks.

Then a half-smile, half-scowl split her face. Oh, right. She unconsciously twisted her ring finger again.

She looked back to Jessica and nodded. "Thank you so much," Maria told her with a smile. She turned to leave, then paused. "Oh, sure," she told Lucius. "If I've got anything to say about it, the next you'll see of _him_ will be a mug shot."

With that, she snapped the door shut behind her. Time to make a few phone calls.

She walked out of the hospital with a nod to the receptionist, then almost jumped out of her skin when her phone started going off. She breathed deeply and pulled it out, putting her free hand over her unsteady heart. The caller ID was anonymous. "H-hello?"

"Hey."

Maria sighed in relief, then realized how convenient this was. "Hi, Aidan. I was actually just about to call you..."

"You were?" His voice sounded far too hopeful. Maria sighed again.

"Yeah." She pulled her keys out of her purse and got into the car. "It's...well...It's about..."

"No, wait." Maria stopped instantly. "Listen, I've been thinking about everything and I'm really, really sorry." He sounded a little desperate. "I mean, I totally lost it after...y'know. But I shouldn't have."

Maria listened appreciatively. That was sweet, but not what she needed to talk to him about. She tried several times to put the keys into the ignition. "I was hoping...well, I don't really have many friends after...y'know," he again avoided talking about the breakup. "So I was hoping...I mean, I just talked to this guy, Gerald, who says that he does sessions...I was hoping that you'd be willing to...comewithmetoanAAmeeting."

She stopped what she was doing, dropping her keys onto the floor of the car. Did he just ask her to go to an AA meeting? With a guy called Gerald? No way. This was too...convenient. Apparently, her long silence unnerved Aidan. "I mean, only if you wanted to. Maybe we could...talk 'n stuff afterwards, you know..." He sighed on the other line. "I'm sorry, that was a stupid idea..."

"Nonono," Maria said quickly, desperate not to lose him. Convenient or not, this might be exactly the man that Jessica had been talking about. "I'd be happy to come, really." She grinned. They talked for another minute, affirming the time and location of the meeting (that night at seven, at one of the facilities near the Narrows), and she finally hung up the phone.

She was using him. She knew that. But it was for a good cause, and didn't that justify her actions? She scowled, remembering the old debate in her college history class about the ends justifying the means. She'd always been of the opinion that the ends didn't matter; if the means used were amoral, it wasn't worth it.

She groaned. More philosophy. She rammed the keys into the ignition and started back to the hotel.

. . .

It had not taken long for the hospital to call in someone with the proper authority to help Gordon with his mission, nor much longer for Gordon to fill out the paperwork. He was well-known in Gotham for being a wonderful person and a loving family-man, so the system let him through easily, and he was soon on his way home with Olivia.

He was carrying Olivia in his arms when he opened his front door. He put a finger to his lips to indicate for her to be very quiet, then called, "Honey! Sarah, I'm home!" He smiled down at Olivia, pushing a bit of hair out of her face. "Wait until you meet your new mother," he told her, "I bet you'll just be crazy about one another." He looked up when he heard his wife's footsteps approaching, and smiled at her when she emerged.

"Jim!" she said, sounding a bit surprised. "You're home early! And…" Her eyes moved to Olivia, and a slightly confused look crossed her face. "Jim, who is our guest?" she asked, looking back at him.

Gordon shifted Olivia in his arms with a smile. "Sarah," he said proudly, "this is Olivia… and we've adopted her."

Sarah's expression of misunderstanding turned instantly to one of surprise. "Adopted…?" she asked, seeming a bit blank. She looked between Olivia and Gordon, who was still smiling proudly. "But…" She looked up at him. "This is so sudden… you didn't even ask me about it first."

"Sarah," said Gordon, looking down at Olivia warily, "she's got no home, no family…"

"Jim, there are plenty of children out there with no home and no family," said Sarah, her voice showing more concern than scolding. "We can't go adopting them all… we've already got Barb and Jimmy to look after."

"We aren't adopting them _all,_ Sarah," said Gordon, "just her." He indicated Olivia. Then he sighed. "Listen, Sarah," he said, "Olivia's really had a rough life. The only family she had was an older brother, and…"

"You didn't adopt him, too, did you?" asked Sarah, suddenly worried.

Gordon shook his head. "He's _dead,_ Sarah," he said gravely. "He died this morning from cardiac arrest."

Sarah gasped, putting a hand over her mouth. "Oh my god," she whispered.

Gordon nodded. "They were in a fire that we believe may have been set by the Joker. Both sustained injuries. Olivia survived… her brother wasn't so lucky." He put a hand on Olivia's head, looking at her with a kind, sad smile. Then he looked back at Sarah. "Olivia had no one left," he told her. "If I hadn't adopted her, she would have gone to a foster home, and you know how those kids always turn out…" He gave her a sad, pleading smile. "So wouldn't it be okay if Olivia were to join our family?" he asked.

Sarah stared at him for a long moment, then sighed and looked over at Olivia. She looked at the girl for a long moment, then held out her arms and took the girl from Gordon's arms, holding her in her own. She balanced Olivia against her hip, carefully looking her over, playing with her hair, taking one of her little hands into her own and looking at it, and finally looking up at Olivia with a smile. "Olivia Gordon," she said. "That does kind-of have a ring to it."

Gordon smiled and heaved a sigh of relief. "So she can stay?" he asked, hopeful.

Sarah looked over at him with a wide smile. "Of course she can," she said.


	28. Chapter TwentySeven

Napier woke to a bum poking him.

The bum did not last long.

Napier sat up, then dragged himself into a standing position against the wall and put a hand to his aching head, wondering what he must have been thinking to go out drinking right after escaping being locked up for the rest of his life. He shrugged the inquiry off, stepping over the headless corpse and kicking aside the disembodied head. So he was celebrating his victory a little bit. No one could blame him for that…

He glanced back at the dead bum and licked his lips. He had to quit killing everyone who happened to get in his way, he told himself. It was a bad habit, and people would get suspicious if dead bodies kept showing up all over Gotham. He chuckled to himself. No, they wouldn't. If the police did not find at least one dead body a day, there was something wrong. He kicked the head back over to the body, watching it roll along and groaned, putting a hand back to his throbbing head. Maybe he should not party so hardy next time.

He sighed, then looked down at his clothes. "Aw, fuck," he muttered, pulling at them. He looked up, squinting when the light hit his eyes. "Where'd I put my stuff?" He wet his lips and swallowed, trying to think back, but his head was fuzzy and painful, and he could not remember a thing. "I need a writing-pad," he told himself, only really half-paying-attention to what he was saying. "Write things down when I drink… so I remember them in the morning."

He stopped, leaning against the wall. "Shit," he said under his breath. What was he thinking, get a writing-pad to write things down when he drank? What was that, admission to his weakness? "Stupid," he scolded himself sharply, hitting his head against the wall, and he cringed backwards, at once wishing he had not done that. "Aow," he groaned. "Fucking idiot. _Now_ look what you've done." He let out a deep breath, then opened his eyes and looked back at the bum. "Look what you've done," he repeated.

So maybe it was a little much to twist the man's head off with his bare hands. But he had woken him up, for Chrissake. That was entirely un-called-for, especially when his head hurt like the dickens and he had no idea where he was. He was sure that if someone of a more reputable nature had tried to wake him, they, too would have found themselves headless on the floor.

He guessed it was a good thing it had just been some bum.

He looked down at the headless corpse and a slight grin spread across his face at the bum's attire. His pants and shoes were worn and dirty and looked like they had been fished out of some dump too long ago to remember, but he wore a coat that looked unusually smart for someone of his financial status. Napier made his way over to the corpse and grabbed hold of the coat, yanking it off the headless body. He would not be using it anymore, anyways.

"Nice coat," Napier mused with a grin.

He looked back down at the bum, considering the clothes he wore, then looked down at his own outfit. By now, the police would know about the clothes he had stolen. He looked back up at the bum's lifeless corpse, and a wicked grin started to slowly spread across his face.

. . .

Jeanette knew what it meant to keep a low profile. She understood that it was good to be on-the-go when one was being looked for. She could even sympathize with staying in the darker, cruddier parts of town to stay under the radar.

But all this pointless wandering was starting to get on her nerves.

They'd been walking for a few hours. She'd gotten over the shock of having a gun pointed at her, and was now spending the time focusing on her options. She needed that gun. It was more than just her affinity for the weapons; that thing could get her out of a tight situation, especially if the men didn't know she had it. But how to get it away from Crane? She watched the bums and drunks passing their group without really seeing them. She could always take it from him while he was sleeping. That is, if he didn't keep it under his pillow, or something. And then there was the fact that she was still wearing her stupid handcuffs. She wrenched her shoulders once to see if her hands were loose, and was rewarded with a splitting pain. Nope.

Hell, if it came down to it, she could just knock him out and steal it. Not very sneaky, though. She groaned in frustration and kept thinking.

And then there was the matter of Kitty, who was still terrified of him. Jeanette sighed and looked at the woman, holding her child and whispering something in her ear. She probably wouldn't even run if she was given a chance. Jeanette tilted her head and frowned. Half of that was probably because she was as terrified of the Joker as she was of Crane. That probably wasn't good, but what could she do about it?

Jeanette made up her mind and walked up beside the lady, grabbing her arm awkwardly with her hands and yanking her none too gently away from Crane. "Let's chat," she told the woman.

Flicker trotted along, being sure to stomp squarely on each crack she came to. Who knew? Maybe it'd break Crane's back.

She reflected a minute on her mental state. What had happened last night? Something she'd seen or done had triggered the memories of her past. Last night she had decided that it was Kitty, and how much she reminded Flick of her brother. Looking at the woman in the daylight, the resemblance struck her again. She turned away. Going back to timid little Carly was obviously not a good idea with this crowd. She scowled as she thought of the doctor. Son of a bitch; she'd have to find him some time and give him a piece of her goddamn mind. Whichever mind she was currently thinking with, that was. Apparently, Flicker and Carly were almost two different people, Flick decided, kicking a rock into a gutter and shooting her fist into the air in a silent cheer when it went in.

She should probably be worried about her fragile mental condition, but instead she was just curious. So she called out, "Hey, doc, what would you call someone who...um..." She paused, searching for the right words. "Someone who, like, disconnects from reality? Or has two different...people in them, or something, but knows that they're both there? Y'know." Her tone was light; she'd nearly put aside her anger at the man, even though her cheek still stung like a bitch and she was pretty sure there was going to be a red mark there for a while. There really wasn't anything she could do about his horrible behavior.

Yet.

Kitty was surprised when she was pulled away by Jeanette, but she was even more surprised when she was asked to talk. She looked at Jeanette with curious eyes, and then her gaze fell on Jeanette's handcuffs. "I'm sorry he still has you cuffed up like that," she said quietly. "If there was anything I could do…" Her voice trailed off, and she looked away. If she were not so timid, there might have been something she could do. But as it was, she was terrified of Crane, and crossing him or trying to pull the wool over his eyes was out of the question. He was a madman, and had no qualms about hurting her or her daughter.

Then again, he was strangely drawn to her. Maybe she was the perfect person to try to pull a fast one on him. It would be the last thing he would suspect of someone like her. But she was not about to bring it up. Even if Jeanette asked her to do it, she thought, she might not agree to it; she was too scared of the consequences if she were to fail. And even if she were to succeed, even if she could slip something past Crane, there would be just as serious, if not worse, consequences for her for doing it. She held Jeannie Rose close. "Okay," she said quietly, "I'm listening."

Crane looked up in surprise when Kitty was dragged away from him by Jeanette, as awkward as it was, and was about to protest when he was interrupted by Flicker's rather unusual question. He turned to her, his brow furrowed slightly, and stared at her intently through his glasses lenses. "It sounds like MPD," he said offhandedly. "Multiple Personality Disorder. A mental phenomenon that has only recently been legitimately diagnosable." Then he shrugged slightly, his eyes straying. "Though it could logically just be mood swings that make one prone to… different tastes, and therefore associates that as being two different people."

He looked back at her, now more interested than sceptical. "I've met people with MPD," he said. "Many of them were admitted to Arkham… though I never really saw much of a reason why they should me. Most of them were harmless." Crane shrugged. "Though there were a few who…" He took a deep breath, looking away. "…Weren't." He swallowed then, trying to collect his thoughts enough to make a proper diagnosis. "The fact, Flicker, that you are aware that both these personalities is there," he told her, "makes it seem more like a matter of severe mood swings. Though, potentially, it could be an example of inconsequential MPD. It's been known to happen."

He looked away then, at Kitty and Jeanette talking. The question stayed with him, though. "I think what you're experiencing, Flicker," he told her without looking at her, "is something a little more simple than any diagnosis I could give you." He looked back at her. "I think you're having a corollary mental response to the fear you felt as a result of last night's attack on your… _dignity._" He chuckled bitterly to himself, turning away from her. "If you _have_ any," he added to himself, smoothing the front of his jacket.

Jeanette first shrugged off Kitty's apology. "Well, it's my fault I let him get them on me. So I'll just have to fix it." The first lesson they taught you back in Italy; if it's your fault, it's your fault. Learn your lesson and, next time, don't screw it up. The offer of help was interesting, though. Could it mean that Kitty was finally getting a backbone? Jeanette watched her timid face for a moment more, then shook her own head. Not a chance.

Then she frowned, and looked cautiously back at Crane. He seemed preoccupied. She turned back to Kitty. "I know Jack Napier," she told her first, watching her expression carefully. "I spent a bit of time with him, and everybody's right. He's not a good guy." She said it without hesitation; the memory of their last encounter was enough to convince her. "But what's more important is that he wasn't always that way. Back when you two were together, he was different."

She looked over her shoulder again, and spoke more quietly. "If he meets you again, he might revert back to that. You might even get your memory back." She shrugged. "All I'm saying is that it would be beneficial for you to meet him. But..." Here she paused and checked on Crane again. Internally, she scolded herself for being so paranoid. "It would _definitely_ not be good for anyone to meet him on Crane's terms."

There she paused. Hopefully, Kitty would understand what she was getting at. Just in case, Jeanette went on. "Would you be able to trust me enough to try to get away from this little group?" She met the other woman's gaze steadily, hoping that she didn't look very intimidating; she was suddenly very aware of the probable black eye caused by Goodhart's punch the other day, and the severe bags under her eyes from lack of sleep.

Flicker watched Crane, then looked back at the ground with a scowl. So she might have MPD. Wonderful. Just another thing about her life that was fucked up.

She thought back to her high school years, and the health class she'd taken. She _knew_ they'd covered Multiple Personality Disorder at one point during their unit on mental disorders...all she could remember was that childhood trauma was a likely cause for the disorder. The thought made her cringe. As much as she hated to admit it, that sort of made sense. Her thoughts centered on Brian again, the last conversation she'd had with him, and then what had happened a month later...She knocked her head with a fist. Nope, she was _not_ going to think about that.

Suddenly, she registered Crane's last snide comment. That was fucking _it_, she decided, inappropriately happy for the situation. Enough abuse for one day. She whipped around and turned Crane by his shoulder, grabbing his tie with one fist and putting her face uncomfortably close to his. "I don't take shit from someone the same size as me," she informed him pleasantly. "And _especially_ not a skinny-ass creep with stupid glasses and a stupid ego." She stared at him for a moment, then let him go, brushing off her hands in an exaggerated way on her jeans.

Kitty felt her heart drop. So he was _not_ a doctor, as she had recently begun to hope. He was a criminal, after all. Just as she had always suspected. It almost made her want to cry, but she held back the emotion, instead looking at the ground and listening to Jeanette's words. They always said time could change a man, but she was not sure Jeanette's theory about a simple meeting returning both of them to the way they had once been. If he remembered her the way Jeanette said, then it was only a matter of her remembering him… and if she could not, he might get angry and hurt her. Or worse, he might get angry and hurt Jeannie Rose. She held her daughter a little closer, worrying.

Then again, Jeanette's words had struck a cord in her. If he remembered her, even through what he had become, then was there not the slightest hope, if only ever so slight, that she might remember him, if she were to actually see him? Perhaps if she were to hear his voice, everything would come back to her. Then she shook her head. "No," she agreed, "not on Crane's terms…" She looked up at Jeanette then. "I have no idea what he wants Jack Napier for," she said worriedly. "And I have no idea why he needs me for it… but…" She looked back at the ground. "I'm scared," she admitted.

Then she looked up in surprise. "Run away…?" she asked, astounded and afraid. She looked away, her eyes wide, her brow furrowed slightly. "I… but…" She glanced back at Crane, getting slightly frantic. "If he finds out… If he were to know I was running away…" She looked back at Jeanette. "Doctor Crane would be so upset, he… he'd _kill_ me if I tried to run away," she said, her voice quick, terrified. "I… I…" She stopped, closing her mouth, and took a deep breath. She squeezed her eyes shut, turning her face into Jeannie Rose's hair, and took a moment, just catching her breath, steadying her heart rate.

Then she paused, opening her eyes, frowning, and stopped in her tracks. She looked at the ground, her face slightly blank, then wavered, putting a hand to her head, frowning a bit. "I…" she said faintly, taking the hand away from her forehead. Then she put the hand to her chest, looking worried. "I…" she said again. She paused a moment longer, then looked up at Jeanette, slightly confused. "I'm sorry," she said. "I just… felt a bit ill for a moment." Her frown darkened a bit more, then she shook her head. "It's passed now," she said. "That was the strangest…"

Her voice trailed off, but her worried expression remained. Then she started walking again, catching back up to Jeanette, and looked over at her. "If you have a plan," she said, her expression changing to one of determination, "then I'll do it." She nodded her affirmation, her face set. "I don't want to be afraid anymore," she said quietly.

Crane stopped in his tracks, staring at Flicker, his haughty expression quickly darkening into one of derisive rage. "_Tanaí téaltaigh?_" he asked, arching an eyebrow at her, his face set in a tight-lipped scowl. "_Bómánta spéaclaí? Bómánta féinspéis?_" He cocked his head slightly at her, glaring at her, and took a deep breath. He could not lose his head to this one. He closed his eyes for a moment, reverting back to English, then opened them, continuing to glare at her. "I don't have time to deal with infidels like you," he told her in a cold, pointedly articulated voice. Then he looked over towards Goodhart. "Flicker seems to be feeling particularly out of character today," he told the big man. "Perhaps you should… help her out."

He looked towards Flicker with a mocking, sarcastic grin, folding his hands behind his back. A moment passed and nothing happened. The grin on his face faded slightly, and he turned back to Goodhart with a disdainful frown. "I'm talking to you, you useless behemoth," he snapped. "Take care of her. Do it now."

Crane swallowed, smoothing a lock of hair back into place, and cleared his throat, regaining his head. "It would be most helpful towards our endeavours," he tried one last time, "if you would knock a little sense into our friend… Flicker." He turned his head slightly, looking at the man. "She is hindering our progress," he said. "If we get too held up with domestic discrepancies, we'll never find Maria. Then what will you do?" He smirked. "You'll never find her without me," he said coldly.

. . .

Napier drummed his fingers on the counter of the receptionist's desk, waiting for someone to return to the front desk to assist him. He sighed, looking at the clock on the wall, then perked up as the receptionist came in, sat down at the front desk, and looked up at him with a friendly smile. "Hello, sir, how can I…" she began, but her voice faded out when she noticed the bizarre scarring around his mouth. He grinned at her awkwardly.

"Hi," he said.

She stared at him for another moment, then replied hesitantly, "H-hi."

"I'm here to see an old friend of mine," Napier said, licking his lips and turning towards her, trying to see over the desk to get a glimpse of her paperwork. "Maybe you can help me out."

"Um, s-sure, sir," the receptionist said, turning towards her computer and pulling up the patient files. "Who were you wanting to see?"

"Jessica," he replied. Then, for good measure, he added, "My friend, Jessica."

She nodded nervously, looking through the records. Then she turned back to him, handing him a slip of paper with Jessica's room number on it. "This is her room, sir," she said.

"Ah, thank you," said Napier, taking the slip of paper from her. Then he looked back at her with a wry grin. "What's your name, little lady?" he asked.

She smiled hesitantly at the nickname, then answered shyly, "Um, it's Harleen, sir."

"Harleen," Napier repeated, folding the little slip of paper and opening it again. "Nice name."

"Thank you, sir," she said. She stared at him for a long moment, then asked, "Have we… met before?"

Napier chuckled, looking at the room number on the slip of paper. "Ah, no." he said. Then he paused. "Unless…" he said. He turned back to her, suddenly interested. "Have you worked here a long time?" he asked. "Say… more than five years?"

The receptionist shook her head. "No, sir," she said, "I've only recently started working at Gotham General. Why, would you like to speak to someone who has?"

"No, no," he said quickly, shaking his head and looking away at the slip of paper again. "I, uh… I've got to go pay Jessica a… visit, now." He wet his lips, flashing the receptionist one last, quick grin before starting down the hallway towards the room written on the slip of paper.

The receptionist watched him for a long moment, then turned back to her paperwork. "He seems so _familiar,_" she mused to herself. Then she sighed. "I'm probably just imagining it," she said.

Napier muttered to himself, checking each door as he passed it, looking at the slip of paper and then at the door number, and shaking his head at each incorrect door he passed. "Nope, nope…" he mused under his breath, "not right… Jessica, Jessica, Jessica." He wet his lips, frowning slightly as he passed yet another incorrect door. "Mm," he grunted, slightly annoyed.

He turned another corner and looked up, and grinned when he found himself facing the door that matched the number on the slip of paper he held. "Found ya," he said with a chuckle. "Jessica… _knows_ something." He moved towards the door, stuffing the slip of paper into his pocket, and reached out a hand to open the door…

When the door swung open of its own accord and he found himself face-to-face with Lucius Fox.

Fox blinked in surprise at the sudden sight of the stranger. Napier stared back, just as surprised. Neither one said a word for a long moment. Then Napier's face split into an awkward smile.

"Hi," he said.

"Hello," answered Fox simply, frowning slightly at Napier.

Napier wet his lips. "I'm, um," he said, jerking his head slightly and indicating past Fox, "I'm here to see… to see Jessica."

"Are you, now?" asked Fox, wary and sceptical.

Napier nodded, refusing to meet Fox's eyes. "Yeah," he said, wetting his lips again.

Fox nodded. "Right." He paused, then added in a somewhat more forceful than necessary tone, "And who are you?"

"I'm, um… a friend," Napier said, his eyes darting across the floor. He shoved his hands into his pockets and shifted uncomfortably. Then he looked up at Fox. "And who are _you?_" he asked.

Fox raised his eyebrows. "I'm her _brother,_" he answered.

Napier paused, his eyes straying, and opened his mouth as if to speak, hesitated, and then closed it again. "Ah," he said.

"Look, I don't really think you should be here," Fox started, but Napier put up a finger, stopping him, his expression changing to one of revelation.

"I'm a friend," he said, "of Mister Wayne's." He nodded, proud of himself.

Fox stared at him, deciding to humour him. "Is that so?" he asked, folding his arms. "Well, any friend of Mister Wayne's is a friend of mine. What's your name, friend?"

"Dolohov," said Napier, nodding. "Casper Dolohov."

"Mister Dolohov," said Fox with a false smile. "And what's your trade, _Mister Dolohov?_"

Napier's smile faded a bit. "What?" he asked.

"Well, you must have a trade, if you're involved with Mister Wayne," Fox explained. "So what's yours?"

Napier's eyes strayed again, and his mouth opened slightly as he thought. "I'm…" He moistened his palate and swallowed, then looked back at Fox. "I'm invested in foreign trade," he said. He nodded slightly, as if to prove his point.

"Is that so?" Fox said, his false smile widening. He leaned against the door frame. "And what exactly is it that you trade in?"

Napier frowned, then answered simply, "Foreigners."

"Right." said Fox. Then he stood straight and took Napier by the arm, leading him away from the hospital room. "Listen, Mister Dolohov, or whatever your name is," he said, dropping his amiable tone, "I don't know what your deal is with Jessica, but I know for a _fact _that you are _not_ a friend of Mister Wayne's."

"Yeah? And how do you know that?" asked Napier, trying to wrench his arm away, but Fox's grip was like a vice.

"Because I happen to be Mister Wayne's personal assistant," he said coldly, "and I manage all his trading affairs. And I know that there has _never_ been someone on there by the name of Casper Dolohov. And _especially,_" he added forcibly, jerking Napier slightly, "one who deals in _foreign trade._"

"Really?" asked Napier. "And what's _your _name?"

"None of your business," replied Fox sharply.

"No kidding?" asked Napier. "Your mom must've been really pissed off when she named you. What's your sister's name, Shut the fuck up?"

Fox shoved Napier into the waiting-room and stood his ground, glaring at her. "Don't you _ever_ come near my sister again," he told him, pointing at him threateningly. "You come near her again, I'm going to call the police, and they'll deal with you better than I have."

"Ooh," said Napier sarcastically, "I'm shaking."

Fox frowned at him again, then turned away and started back towards his sister's room. He would tell her about this when she woke up, and the two of them would probably be able to have a good laugh about it. It was just like Jessica to attract nuts like that. Then again, there had been something strange about the man's scars, and something uncannily familiar about his face…

Fox stopped before he got to Jessica's room and sighed, staring at the door. "Damn," he said under his breath. He put a hand in his pocket and slipped out his slim cell phone, going down the list of numbers until he found Bruce Wayne's. A man like Bruce Wayne, who prowled the city as a vigilante against even the least of crimes, would be sure to know about suspicious individuals like that one - particularly if they were so blatantly recognizable. Fox doubted there were many homeless people in Gotham who stood over six feet tall and had unusual scars around their mouths like that.

And what disturbed him the most was that the conspicuous individual had wanted to see his sister - and had known her name.

He put the phone to his ear, listening to it ring and hoping against hope that Wayne would pick up.

Bruce Wayne sat staring in one of the sofa-chairs in his windowed-in balcony, staring out at the city, his hands folded meditatively in his lap. He looked up when Alfred came in with a tray, and offered him a tight smile. "That for me?" he asked.

"I thought you might be a bit peckish, Sir," Alfred replied with a smile, setting down the tray. "So I made you up something."

"Thanks, Alfred," said Wayne. He turned, looking back out the windows at the cityscape, and sighed. "Why do I feel like there's something terrible going on right now and I don't know about it?" he asked.

Alfred considered the question, seating himself in the sofa-chair opposite Wayne, then shrugged, folding his hands in his lap like Wayne's. "I haven't the foggiest, Sir," he replied candidly. "Perhaps you should get more sleep."

Wayne shook his head. "I don't think that's it," he said. He looked over at Alfred, frowning slightly. "How many days has it been since we've heard from either Napier or Crane?" he asked.

Alfred paused, counting silently, then looked back up at Wayne. "Last you heard from the Joker was yesterday, Sir," he said. "And last you heard from Crane…" He counted silently again, then looked at Wayne again. "Well, I've bloody lost count, Sir," he admitted.

Wayne nodded, looking back out the window. "Maybe that's it," he said. "Crane seems too… quiet. Like he's in hiding, plotting something big."

"Like what, Sir?" asked Alfred.

Wayne shook his head. "I haven't the foggiest," he answered, copying Alfred's expression. He turned to Alfred with a slight smile. Alfred looked surprised for a moment, then smiled back. Just then, Wayne's cell phone began to ring. He frowned, reaching into his pocket, and pulled out the phone he had taken from Fox the day before.

"Who is it, Sir?" asked Alfred, looking at him in interest.

Wayne's frown deepened as he looked at the Caller ID. "It's Fox," he answered, confused. Wayne turned on the phone, putting it to his ear. "Hello?" he asked.

"Do you know anyone by the name of Casper Dolohov?"

Wayne paused, taken aback. "Um… what?" he asked, thrown off.

"Casper Dolohov," said Fox. "Do you know anyone by that name?"

"No, I don't know anyone named -" He stopped suddenly. He felt his blood begin to run cold. "Wait," he said, frowning. "This man, Casper Dolohov… did he have strange scarring around his mouth?"

"Well, yes," said Fox. Wayne closed his eyes, letting out a breath. He had been afraid of this.

"Was he coming to visit Jessica?" Wayne asked.

"Well… yes," Fox answered again, sounding completely confused. "Why, is he an associate of yours?"

"Fox, listen to me," Wayne said. "You have to get Jessica out of there, right now."

Fox was silent on the other end. Finally he asked, "What?"

"Listen, Lucius," Wayne said, getting a bit impatient, "that man, Casper Dolohov… he's a very dangerous person. You have to get Jessica out of Gotham General. She isn't safe there."

"Well, Mister Wayne, but…" Fox sputtered on the other end of the line, unsure of what to say.

"Fox, Casper Dolohov is Jack Napier," Wayne said. "Casper Dolohov is the Joker."

There was a long silence on Fox's end of the line. Then he whispered, "Oh my god, Bruce."

"I know, I know, but it's going to be all right," Wayne assured him.

"All right? Mister Wayne, the Joker just tried to come in and see my sister!" Fox exclaimed, getting frantic. "What if I hadn't been here? He would've killed her!"

"Calm down, Fox," Wayne said, reassuring him. "You _were _there, and Jessica's fine."

"But…" Fox sighed, exasperated. "Where can I put her? He's got resources all over the place. She's not safe anywhere!"

"Bring her here," Wayne said. "There's no place safer than Wayne Manor."

There was another silence on Fox's end of the line. "She doesn't know about you, Mister Wayne," he finally said, gravely.

Wayne sighed, looking out the window. That was true. The more people who knew about his identity, the less likely it was that his identity would be kept a secret from the public. He frowned, thinking it over.

"Mister Wayne?" Fox's voice on the other end of the line. "Are you still there?"

"Yeah, I'm still here," Wayne said. He sighed. "Look, Fox," he said, "I know it's a risky move, but… she's your sister." He paused, then took the leap. "I trust her."

Fox let out a relieved sigh, and Wayne knew he had made the right choice. "You are a life-saver, Mister Wayne," Fox said. "Literally."

"All right," said Wayne with a relieved smile. "But you owe me one, Fox."

"Mister Wayne, I've lost count of how many I owe you," Fox replied with a chuckle. Then his tone returned to all business. "Shall I bring her right over?" he asked. "I think that would be safer. I don't want her to stay here another minute with that creep onto her scent."

"Bring her on over," said Wayne. "I'm sure the Gotham General staff will be happy to help us set up a hospice in the master bedroom."

"Thank you _so_ much, Mister Wayne," Fox said, and hung up.

Wayne hung up his phone as well and sighed, then looked up at Alfred, who was watching him expectantly. "Looks like today just got interesting," he said, getting up from his chair.

"It certainly looks that way," agreed Alfred, nodding his consent.

. . .

Jeanette watched Kitty closely during her...spazz attack, she supposed. What the hell _was_ that? She looked away, frowning. Maybe she was remembering something. Then she shrugged.

"I need that gun," she murmured, nodding towards Crane, who was still focused on Flicker and the girl's idiotic antics. "Can't work without my tools, you know." She cringed and regretted saying that. Well, if Kitty hadn't figured out by now what sort of business Jeanette was involved in, she was about to. She continued, "And the keys to these." The handcuffs rattled a bit when she shook them. "And I need them at an opportune time."

Goodhart sighed. How the hell had he let Crane get that much leverage over him? The situation wasn't good, but there wasn't much he could do about it at this point. So he pushed aside his unwillingness to follow orders and took a step towards Flicker.

She immediately backed up. "Hey, now," she protested, holding her hands out helplessly. "I didn'...I didn' even _do_ anything!" She smiled nervously and looked between the two men. Goodhart scowled back.

"Besides being an annoying, useless little freak," he replied, raising a fist and bringing it down hard on the empty air where her head had been a moment ago. Flick had dodged behind him, and now shoved his back.

"I didn't _do_ anything," she repeated, her tone losing some of its amusement. "Leave me the hell alone, you big ape." Goodhart recovered quickly, and turned with a snort. He wasn't going to be made to look like an idiot by this kid. He went for her again, moving more quickly. And again, she had danced around his fist and wound up behind the man.

This time, though, she was through playing. She grabbed his arm, wrenched it behind his back, and shoved his head into a conveniently close trash can. She held him for only a moment, smiling. "Hey, buddy, why're you so _serious_? Don't get _too_ down in the dumps." She snickered and released his arm to pull her lighter out of her pocket. She produced a flame easily and held it to his grubby asylum uniform. "You oughta _lighten up_." Her grin stretched wide. He immediately threw her hands off and turned menacingly, rubbing his throbbing red forehead with one palm and putting out the flame on his top with the other. A rotten piece of trash was stuck to his hair, and he threw it off to the side. He advanced with murder in his eyes. She backed off with a wild grin. "Christ, you _are_ a spazzy scrapper." Goodhart muttered something unintelligible and swung his fist. The blow connected with Flicker's jaw, and she fell back against the opposite wall of the alley.

She scooted back as Goodhart continued walking towards her. She suddenly felt inexplicably giddy, watching those huge fists swinging at his sides and ready to hit her hard enough to wake up her nonexistent dentist. "This is _so_ fuckin' funny..." she said loudly, grinning like an idiot. Another blow hit the side of her head. "You wanna...you wanna know why?" The next punch hit her nose; she thought she heard something crack. "Well, you wanna find your daughter 'n kill 'er," Flicker went on, still smiling as Goodhart's fist hit her jaw. She spit out some blood. "An' _he's_ killed plenty of people." She paused and pointed at Crane, then continued. The edges of her vision were beginning to dim. "And I killed my own _brother_," she said with an air of finality as Goodhart's last blow hit her eye.

She dropped to the ground with a thud, smiling up at the world, blood leaking out of the corner of her mouth. "What a fuckin' small world. And..." She spat again, a little blood trickling down her chin. "And _that's_ what's so fuckin' _funny_." With that, she was out.

Goodhart watched the unconscious girl for a moment, then looked up at Crane with a shrug. "I don't think I can carry her like I did that one," he told the doctor, pointing at Jeanette. "That bleeding might be a problem."

Kitty nodded, listening to Jeanette. Then she looked up at her in somewhat scared interest. "He has a gun?" she asked. She glanced back at Crane, who was busy dealing with Goodhart and Flicker, then turned back around. She swallowed, taking a deep breath. It would be just like him, she thought. He would carry a weapon… he would do whatever it took to assure himself that he remained feared. She put her cheek on her daughter's head. A handgun was enough to scare her, she conceded. Now she had even more reason to be wary of Crane. Not that she had not been utterly terrified of him _before…_

Then she shook the thought from her head. She did not want to be terrified of Crane. She could not be scared of him any longer, or else he would continue to take advantage of her fear, and continue to hold the power over her. She listened to Jeanette's instructions carefully, nodding. She needed Crane's gun and keys… well, that was not going to be easy. Crane kept his gun and keys on his person at all times. The only way she would be able to get at either would be…

She shuddered, turning back to Jeanette. "He probably keeps them close at all times," she said. "I'd have to… get close to him to get them." Her blood turned to ice as soon as she said it. Just thinking about letting Crane get that near to her again made her skin crawl. But she cleared her throat, keeping a determined face. "It'll have to be sometime tonight," she said. "Is tonight too late to be… opportune?" She glanced back at Crane again. "Providing he's not in… a different mood by then," she said quietly.

Crane frowned over at Goodhart, looking him up and down. "Since when did a little blood bother you?" he asked. Then he scoffed. "Then again, I wouldn't want you to ruin your… couture," he said with a slight sneer, looking pointedly at Goodhart's Arkham jumpsuit. His eyes returned to the man's face. "It's probably the nicest thing you own," he said coldly. He looked away, smoothing out the front of his jacket. "Too bad it's a rental," he added.

Then Crane looked back at Kitty and Jeanette, and a cold grin split his face. "You ladies look tired," he said, trying to sound amiable but failing miserably. "Perhaps we should start looking for someplace to… settle down soon. Tomorrow's going to be a big day."

Kitty looked away, cradling Jeannie Rose. "You always say that," she said quietly, "and then nothing ever happens."

Crane frowned slightly, looking over at her, and approached her. She looked away from him, refusing to meet his gaze. He moved up next to her and stopped, staring at her. A slight, frigid grin began creeping at the corners of his mouth, and he reached up a hand, fingering a lock of her mousy-brown hair. Kitty closed her eyes, shuddering. Crane took hold of the lock of hair and leaned over to her ear. "You want excitement, Kitty?" he whispered. She said nothing, refusing to look at him. "Well, you're in luck," he went on without waiting for her answer. "Because I won't make you wait until tomorrow to get it."

He leaned away from her, grinning at her, then let go of her hair and walked ahead, folding his hands behind his back. "Goodhart, stop your complaining and take the girl along," he called without looking back. Kitty opened her eyes, glaring after Crane for a long moment. Then she turned back to Jeanette, determined.

"I'll get them to you by tonight," she said.

Jeanette wondered if Kitty would actually have the gall to follow through. At the moment, she looked so terrified of Crane that she couldn't speak. Jeanette sighed and figured that, either way, nothing could get worse. Her fingers twitched in anticipation of getting her hands on that gun. She'd have to have a lot of self-control not to put the gun to Crane's head and pull the trigger.

Then a slow smile spread across her face. No, she wouldn't do that. Because watching Napier go ballistic on the man who had kidnapped and raped his wife would be _so_ much more fun.

To Kitty, she simply said, "Thank you. I swear I won't let you down." Not that her promises meant much in Kitty's eyes. The woman probably mistrusted her as much as Crane.

With a final, apathetic glance at Flicker (Jeanette hardly cared about the girl; it was obvious she was as nuts as the men), Jeanette followed Crane obediently, still smiling.

Goodhart frowned. It wasn't that he was suddenly skittish of blood, or even that he was worried that he'd get his only clothing dirty. He was, surprisingly, worried about the health of the girl. Sure, she was annoying as hell and deserved to have her neck snapped at the earliest convenient time, but she was good with a lighter. He inspected the hole at the bottom of his shirt for a moment. _Damn_ good with a lighter, and with a good sense of explosive and arson, too.

Plus, killing her in a fist-fight wasn't exactly the death he'd imagined for the wench.

So he picked her up more gently than usual, sort of cradling her against his chest with a scowl. Hopefully they'd get to whatever shelter they were using tonight soon. This was humiliating.

. . .

Harleen walked through the parking lot of Gotham General and pulled her keys from her pocket, looking for the one that corresponded with her car. When she got to her car, she looked up at the little automobile and frowned. It was such an old clunker. Maybe when she got a promotion at her job, she would be able to afford a better one. She put her hand on her hip and just looked at the little red car. "You are really a sad little thing," she said with a sigh. "Just like me."

Just then, a noise caught her attention and she turned, surprised, to see what it was. A man, tall, well-built, and apparently, from the look of his attire, homeless, was moving across the parking-lot towards her. She stiffened, apprehensive, but did not move. She put a hand to the pocket of her nurse's dress, making sure her pepper-spray was still there, and stood her ground, letting the stranger approach. When he got within speaking distance, she told him in a raised voice, "I'm armed, sir. I don't want you to make any trouble."

Harleen took a step back towards her car, but he stopped in his tracks, swaying slightly on his feet. Then he smiled awkwardly at her in the wan light that still remained in the sky.

"Hi," he said.

Harleen frowned slightly. She recognized that voice. "Do I… know you?" she asked, squinting at him, trying to make out his face in the sparse light.

He paused, then stumbled forward a few steps and came to stand, rather unsteadily, in front of her. She looked up into his face, and frowned slightly when she saw the familiar scarring around his mouth. "You're the guy who came in -"

"To see Jessica," he finished her statement. He grinned at her boozily.

Harleen stared at him, then nodded slowly. "Right," she said, hesitant. She looked away, taking a breath, then looked back at him nervously. "So, um… were you needing some medical help, sir?" she asked. "The hospital is still open… you can go inside and see the doctor, if you need to…"

He shook his head, wavering slightly on his feet. "Nope," he replied thickly, "jus' got nowhere t'-" his statement was interrupted by a hiccup, and he staggered back a step. He caught his balance, paused, and then his face split into a wide grin. He giggled, then chuckled, and then, unable to hold himself back any longer, broke into a full laugh. He put his face in his hand and laughed until he was breathless, turning away from her in his bout of mirth.

She frowned at him, slightly confused. "Are you okay?" she asked.

He paused, catching his breath, and looked back at her. "Am I…?" he asked, but before he could finish his statement, he started laughing again. He stumbled back a few steps, catching his balance, before looking up at her with a wry grin. "Oh," he said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, "I'm fine… I'm fine, really."

She nodded, frowning. Then she indicated her car. "Well, um, I should be going, now…" she said, a bit uncomfortable.

He looked up at her then, interested. "Where'ya goin'?" he asked, his words slurring slightly.

"Um," she bit her lip, looking at him. She hesitated; he _seemed_ harmless enough, despite his size and the strange scarring around his mouth, but she was not always the best judge of character. She looked him up and down. The guy was probably homeless, and definitely more than a little tipsy. Harleen was not the type of girl who picked up strangers, especially homeless strangers who had been drinking. But there was something about this man that seemed… _different._

She stared at him for another moment. She looked at her watch, checking the time. It was six o' clock. She looked up at him again, then sighed, relenting. "I was on my way to visit my friend Pamela," she told him. "But you look like you could use some help." She folded her arms, watching him. "Look, I know a place where I can take you," she said. "They take care of… guys like you. Treat 'em real good."

She tried to smile at him, but her smile was awkward. Then she indicated the car. "Get on in," she said. "I'll give you a lift."

. . .

Napier picked up a pack of cigarettes that lay on the bedside table and knocked one out into his hand, then transferred it to his mouth. Then he turned to Harleen. "Gotta light?" he asked.

She reached over to her bedside table, opened the drawer, and pulled out a lighter. Then she handed it back to him and watched him intently as he lit up, then set the lighter aside on his own bedside table and exhaled the smoke.

"What's your name?" she asked.

He paused, considering for a moment, then said, "Jasper."

"Jasper?" she asked. She turned onto her back and looked up at the ceiling. "What a funny name."

"'S no funnier'n _Harleen,_" he retorted. "I like it plenty."

"I didn't say there was anything _wrong_ with it," she replied, picking up one of his hands and starting to play with his fingers. "Just said it was kinda _funny._" She let his hand fall back to the bed and sighed, staring at the ceiling. "Jasper," she said to herself. She turned back to him, laying her head on his chest. "Mistah J," she said with a chuckle. "Is it okay if I call you that?"

"Mm." He shrugged. "Call me whatever you want." He took a drag of his cigarette, then blew out the smoke slowly, watching it dissipate. Then he sighed. "I can't stay here for very long," he mumbled. "Too risky."

"Aw, you can stay the _night,_ can't you?" Harleen asked, pouting slightly. "Not that risky. Nobody ever asks questions 'round here."

He took another drag of the cigarette, considering her suggestion. "Don't see any trouble with that," he conceded, exhaling a line of blue smoke. Then he turned and looked at her. "What'd you say your friend's name was, again?" he asked.

"Pamela," she replied airily. "Pamela Isley. Why?"

He shook his head. "Jus' like t' know names, is all," he said. He took another drag of the cigarette.

There was a long silence. Then Harleen looked up at him. "I have an idea," she said with a playful smile. "Why don't you give me a bath?"

He quirked an eyebrow, looking over at her, then exhaled the smoke. "Say _what,_ now?" he asked.

"_You know…_" she said. She rested her chin against his ribcage. "I've been a_ dirty girl._ I want you to give me a bath." She grinned at him. "Clean me up." She batted her eyelashes at him. "Mistah J," she said.

Napier ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth, considering her offer, then nodded in consent. "Okay," he said, looking away and taking another pull of the cigarette, "you get the bath ready, I don't see why I can't clean you up a little."

She smiled, then pushed herself off from the bed and started for her bathroom. He leaned back into the pillow, listening as she turned on the tub water and it started filling up the tub with a hollow, metallic sound. He sighed, glancing over towards her side of the bed, and saw her nurse's dress hanging over a chair. He frowned slightly, considering it, and brought the cigarette back to his mouth, taking a drag.

"Mistah J! The tub's almost ready!"

Napier looked up at the sound of Harleen's voice, blowing out a line of smoke, then sat up in bed. "Coming," he called back, standing from the bed. He scratched his head absentmindedly, taking another drag of the cigarette, and made his somewhat wavering way towards her bathroom. Napier leaned in the doorway of the bathroom, putting the cigarette into his mouth as he watched the water filling up the tub.

Harleen knelt before the tub of water, stark naked. She turned when she heard him approaching and smiled at him, her blonde pigtails framing her face as she giggled and indicated the tub filling with water. "Tub's almost ready," she said.

He nodded, taking the cigarette from his mouth and exhaling the smoke. "So I see," he said.

She grinned, turning back to the tub. He watched her for a long moment, putting the cigarette absently back in his mouth, then moved forward until he stood behind her. "You're a really great gal, you know," he said, the cigarette dangling from his lip. He sat on the tub's rim, looking at her, and put a hand to her face, stroking the line of her jaw. She looked up at him in adoration as he fingered one of her pigtails, then moved his hand around to the back of her head, almost as if cradling her head in his hand.

She looked at him, her eyes searching his face, and a sweet smile crossed her face. "Thank you, Mistah J -" she began, but she was cut off by him grabbing her by the hair and plunging her head roughly into the tub water. She struggled frantically, but he would not let up. Then he dragged her out of the water by the hair. She coughed and sputtered, trying frantically to clear her hair from her eyes, confused and frightened. "What are you _doing?!_" she asked, hysterical.

He looked at her with an expression of exaggerated concern, his lips parted slightly. "Do you want me to stop, Harleen?" he asked in a voice that mocked pity. She looked up at him, tears starting to flow down her already-wet cheeks, and nodded. "Do you?" he asked again. She nodded again, choking back a sob. "Oh," he said, looking away and nodding slightly to himself. Then he turned back to her. "Too bad," he said, and dunked her under again. He held her under for a long moment, ignoring her thrashing and floundering, and took the cigarette from his mouth, exhaling smoke, before putting it back in his mouth and pulling her up again.

"OH GOD!" she screeched, looking up at him, her eyes red with water and tears. "WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?!"

He looked at her for a moment, considering her. He switched the side of his mouth the cigarette was in with his tongue, then shrugged. "Why not?" he asked. She looked up at him in terror, her eyes locking with his for a split second, and he giggled feverishly at her expression before dunking her head under the water again. She reached up and grabbed hold of his shoulder, digging her nails into his flesh, and dragged down, leaving bloody claw-marks in his skin.

He pushed her further down into the water, biting down on the filter of the cigarette, and glanced over at his shoulder. The scratches on his shoulder glistened with fresh blood, and it made him giddy. "Hoh," he breathed, his mouth twisting into a slowly spreading grin. "Hoh," he laughed again, looking back over at her with a renewed madness in his dark eyes. "Oho. Ha. Ha, ha… HA… _HAHA…!_" His laughter continued to build until it reached full-pitched hysteria. He shoved her head further under the water, gritting his teeth, completely forgetting about the cigarette he still held in his mouth. "You like that?!" he shouted, pushing down on her with both hands. "BREATHE _NOW!!_" He let out another breathy chuckle, then threw back his head and shrieked with laughter.

Harleen's hands frantically grasped for whatever she could reach, slipping against the sides of the tub, and, in a last, desperate attempt, she reached for the bathtub's plug. She stretched out her hand, grasping desperately for it, but it was just out of reach. Her fingers scrabbled to touch the plug, and she felt her fingertips barely touching it… and then, everything went black. Her hand slackened and drifted away from the plug, and she moved no more.

Napier stopped laughing as soon as she stopped struggling and looked down at her, pursing his lips slightly as he stared at her. He watched her for a long moment, then let go of her, just sitting on the edge of the tub, staring at her. "Well," he finally said, breathless, "that was a good one." He watched her for another long moment, then took the cigarette from his mouth and flicked the ashes into the tub water.

He looked down at the cigarette in his hand and frowned slightly. "Mm," he said, considering the dwindling cherry. He looked back at Harleen's body one last time before getting up from the edge of the tub. He walked to the doorway of the bathroom, glanced down at the cherry again, and then back at the tub. Then, with a shrug, he tossed the finished cigarette back into the bathroom, where it landed in the water, floating along the still slightly disturbed surface as if nothing had ever happened.

He staggered back into her bedroom, catching his balance on her bed, and sat himself down on it with a grin. "Ha," he said blurrily, looking down at the wound on his shoulder. "Tha'wus a good one… good…" He giggled again, languidly, and looked around at the bedroom. "Haven't… had that much fun n' a while," he mumbled, looking back at the bed. "Gotta… gotta dostuff like'at more… more often." The grin faded from his face a bit, and he put a hand to his head. "Shit," he slurred. He looked back at his shoulder one last time, sighed, and then passed out on her bed.


	29. Chapter TwentyEight

"Whatcha workin' on there, Jarv?" Fox asked, putting a hand on Jarvis Tetch's back.

Jarvis Tetch jumped slightly at being addressed, but looked up at Fox with a reassured smile. Tetch was a short man, perhaps only reaching five-foot-seven, with short brown hair that never seemed to want to lay flat. He had taken to wearing a hat over his hair, unless he felt it was impolite, in which case he would take the hat off. He did not wear a hat to work, and so he always looked somewhat harassed once he walked through the doors of Waynetech. Tetch had buck teeth that protruded slightly past his bottom lip and wide, surprised green eyes that made him look like a startled rabbit, and his outfit was always accentuated with a colourful bowtie. Today's was lime green.

"Oh, it's only you, Fox," Tetch said with a sigh.

"Working a bit late tonight, are we?" asked Fox, checking his watch.

Jarvis shrugged, turning slightly to face Fox a bit more. "Not _that_ late," he reasoned. Then he looked up at Fox. "But you've usually gone home by now," he observed. "Late night tonight, Fox?"

Fox chuckled. "Mister Wayne's doing me a big favour, so I'm putting in a few extra hours to thank him for it," he explained. Then he folded his arms. "But really," he said. "What are you working on?"

"Well, I was doing a little research on the possibility of making…" Tetch swallowed, unsure of how to explain it, "some kind of device that would be… useful in controlling… or at least, partially controlling… minds." He looked back at his work. "But… I can't find anything on that science, besides hypnotism," he said, disappointed, "and that's just silly."

"Right," Fox said with a sceptical grin. "_Hypnotism_ is silly. Jarvis, don't you have anything better to do than stuff like that?"

Tetch turned to look at Fox, slightly hurt. "I thought it could be useful," he said dejectedly, turning back to his work. "But if there's something you'd rather I work on…"

"As a matter of fact, there is," Fox said. He dropped a file on Tetch's desk. "These are a couple blueprints I've done for some projects Waynetech is currently involved in. Could you take a look at them, tell me what you think?" He paused, looking over Tetch's desk, and smiled when he saw something. He picked up a worn copy of Alice in Wonderland, which lay open, pages-down, marking a certain spot in the book. "A little reading in our spare time, Jarvis?" he asked with a kindly smile.

Tetch turned to see what he was talking about, and grinned in response, making his buck teeth even more noticeable. "It's my favourite," he said.

Fox nodded, looking to see which page had been marked. "The Mad Tea Party?" he asked. He looked over at Tetch with a grin. "Let's not be getting any crazy ideas, now, Jarvis," he said with a chuckle, handing the book back to its owner. Tetch took it with a friendly smile. "No butter in the works, all right? This stuff is too expensive for that."

"What if it's the _best _butter?" Tetch asked playfully.

Fox chuckled. "Okay, Jarv," he said, patting the man on the back. "You get back to work now." Then, with one last look at the book in Tetch's hands, he turned and walked away.

Tetch looked down at the book in his hands, then set it down on his desk and stared at it, resting his elbow on his desk and putting his chin in his hand. "Maybe Fox is right," he said. He looked over at his blueprints and papers. "Maybe this stuff_ is _just a big waste of time." He paused, looking at his papers, then turned to the folder Fox had dropped on his desk and opened it, looking through the file. It was the usual; improvements on other companies' products, a few interesting inventions, but mostly nothing that caught Tetch's attention.

He shut the file again, setting it down on his desk, then looked sadly over at the book. He sighed, staring at the artwork on the cover. "Maybe I just wasn't meant for this job," he said quietly.

. . .

_Gerald. Gerald. Got to remember Gerald._

Maria tapped the toe of her sneaker impatiently on the sidewalk. She was next to the home of the AA meeting, a Gotham community center. The thought of it made her laugh. What did the city officials honestly think Gotham citizens would use the place for? Church school gatherings? This wasn't that kind of city.

Aidan walked around the corner, and Maria turned towards him. "Hey," she said with an awkward wave. She couldn't help but remember their last meeting; she was acutely aware of the slight bruise under his cheekbone. "How's it been?"

"O-okay," he replied with a shrug, avoiding her eyes and shuffling his feet. She felt horrible, like his condition was her fault. But she shrugged it off and motioned to the doors.

"Shall we?"

The environment inside was pretty much the same as it had been outside: awkward. No one in the small group seemed to want to look at each other. They all shuffled around, inspecting the motivational posters taped to the wall. It seemed that this Gerald guy hadn't shown up yet. Maria took another look at Aidan, who was watching a nearby girl pick at her nails nervously. He looked a little better. The red-blue scars on the inside of his arm were beginning to fade, and the bags under his eyes had receded a bit.

But these had been replaced by red eyes that apparently itched (he reached up to scratch them a few times) and the shivers. Clear signs of withdrawal, she noted with a sigh. Maybe this _was_ her fault, at least partially. Their violent breakup couldn't have been good for him. She finally took a seat in the circle of chairs set up near the center of the room. Hopefully Gerald would show up soon.

"Eddie! So good to see you back," Gerald said, shaking the hand of the man called Eddie. Then he turned to another attendee, smiling warmly at her as he took her hands. "Good to see you back," he said, nodding to each person in turn as he moved closer to the centre of the room. He shook hands with people, patted people on the back, and laughed with them as if they were old friends. The mood in the room seemed to lighten considerably as soon as Gerald stepped into it.

Gerald was all smiles as he clapped Aidan on the back, taking his hand and shaking it. "Aidan," he said, grinning amiably at the man. "So good to see you back. And who is _this?_" he asked, looking over at Maria. He extended his hand to her. "Gerald," he introduced himself, locking his kindly, clear blue eyes on her, and took her hand in his, shaking it. "It's always a pleasure to have new members," he said. "Especially when they're referred here by current members. It means I must be doing something right."

Gerald chuckled, then indicated for her to stand. "The members always mingle before each meeting," he told her. "Get to know one another. But not too much… it is supposed to be anonymous, you know." He winked at her, friendly. Then he took a breath, paused, and then asked, "So, what exactly is your affliction, Miss?"

Suddenly, he seemed mildly surprised, and put a hand to his head. "Oh, my," he said, "where are my manners? I totally forgot…" He turned to her, offering his hand. "Might I ask what your name is, Miss?" he asked. Then he shrugged. "If you're willing to give it," he added. "We_ are_ an anonymous organization, after all. You don't have to give out any information you're not comfortable giving. After all, your name is the most dangerous piece of information you can give someone."

He smiled at her, his blue eyes twinkling. "Are you sure you can trust me?" he asked.

Maria watched Aidan loosen up during the handshake, then focused on the stranger. So _this_ was Gerald. Nothing too special about him, she thought, frowning. Why had Jessica thought he was so important...?

Then he turned and met her eyes, and she gasped. The eyes.

She stayed silent throughout his ramblings, completely in a state of shock. Couldn't Jessica have _warned_ her? That clear, calculating blue gaze was _much_ too similar to Crane's for comfort. She wrenched her own stare away from his and looked over at Aidan, who looked confused by her reaction. Taking a step back, she fixed a very fake smile on her face.

"The name's Maria," she said. "And as for my affliction, it's nonexistent." She shifted uncomfortably, and the smile slipped away. With a lowered voice and a furtive glance at Aidan, she continued, "Actually, I came here to talk to _you_. Do you have some time now, or...or maybe after the meeting?"

"Maria," Gerald said, inclining his head politely towards her. "Well, it's a pleasure, ma'am." He chuckled as she went on. "Well, you are just one lucky lady, aren't you?" he asked. "Nothing bothering you at all… it's a rare thing you find someone who isn't bothered by a thing in the world." Then his smile faded a bit. "Well, ma'am," he answered candidly, "I've never really been much for interviews… but if you'd be kind enough to sit through the meeting, then I don't see why I can't spare a couple minutes of my time for you."

Then he smiled kindly at her, a slightly mischievous look in his light-blue eyes. "Not a care in the world, huh?" he asked, seeming somewhat fixated on the fact that she did not consider herself afflicted in any way. He raised his eyebrows, shrugging slightly. "It doesn't have to be a problem with alcohol," he told her reassuringly, almost as if hoping to coax some kind of affliction out of her subconscious. "I help everybody. It's not so much a strictly AA group as it is an addiction help group. Like… Addicts Anonymous." He indicated Aidan. "Aidan had a lot of trouble with alcohol and cocaine, both, from what I understand… a very deadly combination. He's lucky that he decided it was time to quit before it killed him."

A serious expression crossed Gerald's face then. "We've had some members who weren't so lucky," he said, turning to her. "We had one young man here once who had trouble with alcohol… and then he stopped coming, but from what I heard of him next, he was getting real into heroin use." He shook his head sadly. "He became a heroin dealer," he said, looking up at her again. "Dealer and user. He was actually a dealer to someone who's part of the group now… where is he?"

He turned away from Maria, looking around at the scattered individuals for someone in particular. Then he smiled when he saw him, and pointed. "There he is!" he exclaimed, moving towards the man and indicating for Maria to follow. "Eddie! Hey, Eddie!" he called.

The man called Eddie turned in surprise to look at Gerald, holding a cup of water in one hand, his other hand tucked into the pocket of his jeans. He was a tall, thin man with a pale complexion, striking green eyes, and closely-cropped ginger hair. He looked slightly surprised to be called out, but when he saw that it was only Gerald, his look of surprised turned into a jumpy smile. "Hey, Ger," he said, taking a drink of water. "How's it holdin' up?"

"Oh, I'm doing great, Eddie," said Gerald in a friendly, fatherly tone. "Eddie, this is Maria. She's here to support Aidan." He pointed out Aidan, and Eddie turned to see who he was talking about. Then he turned back to Maria with a wide, friendly grin, showing off his bleach-white teeth.

"That's real nice of you, Maria," he said. "I wish somebody would support _me._ But I don't have any friends. Or all my friends are in this group for problems, too." He shrugged, taking another drink of water. "But I'm okay. It doesn't bother me much."

"Eddie used to have a real problem with heroin, but he's doing much better now," said Gerald with a smile. Then he turned to the man. "Aren't you, Eddie?"

Eddie nodded. "Yep. It especially helped when the guy I bought from stopped showing up…" His smile faded a little. "I heard something real terrible happened to him," he said. "There was this big house fire my side of town, once… and the next day, my dealer never showed up." He shook his head. "Didn't show up any day after that, either," he said thoughtfully. Then he turned back to Maria. "But I'm clean as a whistle now," he said with a smile.

"Spends his time doing mental exercises," said Gerald with an approving smile. "He especially likes books on riddles."

"Helps me get back the brain cells I lost doing drugs," Eddie put in, upbeat. "Makes me think. Makes me smart." He tapped his temple with a wide, white grin.

"That's very impressive, Eddie," said Gerald with a smile, nodding his approval. He turned back to Maria. "Eddie's taken a wide range of interests since he got off drugs." Then he leaned to her ear and whispered, "I don't think he knows what he's talking about most of the time, though." He raised his eyebrows, giving her a quirky, almost apologetic grin, then turned away from Eddie.

"Well," he said, checking his watch, "actually, ma'am… we still seem to have a couple minutes left until the meeting actually starts, so…" He looked up at her, smiling kindly. "I don't see why you can't squeeze in a couple questions before we begin," he said.

A polite nod was all Maria could muster for this Eddie guy. It wasn't that she didn't care, she just...no, she really didn't care. She spared a glance for him, and a polite, halfhearted "great", then focused back in on Gerald.

Now that she'd noticed the eyes, the similarities between him and Crane were eerie. The way he was so fixated on her reply (she _didn't_ have anything wrong with her, she reminded herself cooly), even his mannerisms at some points. She frowned and shook her head. No, that was just her. The shock of seeing his eyes had gotten the idea into her head.

So she just moved on.

"Well..." She wasn't exactly sure how to start. Maybe a little background. "Do you know Jessica Fox, the director at Arkham Asylum? Well," she corrected herself immediately, with a grimace at the thought of the woman's current state, "not right _now_, I guess, but...you know." She sighed. "I've been involved in a pretty big police case for a while, and it's focused on the old director of Arkham. Jonathan Crane."

She paused and looked Gerald in the eye. "Jessica mentioned to me that you might have some information about him. Something, anything, that could help."

Gerald smiled. "Jessica," he said, sounding somewhat relieved. "Such a sweet lady. Always so helpful. And always so kind to the inmates, always trying to accommodate them." He frowned a bit. "She's no longer the assistant director?" he asked. "She probably retired, huh? Settled down. Poor dear. She deserves it, after all the hard work she's done. Her brother, too. - She has a brother, Lucius." he added. "Works for Bruce Wayne, if I'm not mistaken."

His smile faded at her question. "The _old_ director?" he asked. "As in, he's no longer the director?" He turned away from her, putting a thoughtful hand to his mouth. "Oh, dear," he said, mostly to himself. "What trouble has Jonathan gotten himself in _this_ time?" He paused, seeming to realize that he was talking to himself, and turned back to her with a reassuring, though not entirely believable, smile. "Forgive me," he said. "I sometimes think out loud."

He sighed, folding his arms, and looked at Maria with a serious expression. "I was never able to learn much about Doctor… Crane," he said, seeming a little awkward with the name. "Whenever I did volunteer work at Arkham, he was always too busy to see me… or he wasn't in at all. Though," he added, "I think he just told Jessica to tell me he wasn't in so I wouldn't bother him." He shook his head, looking slightly distant. "I never did manage to get a meeting with the elusive Doctor Crane," he said, somewhat misty. "I've… never seen him."

He looked away. There was something sad about his expression, as if he could just not find the energy to put up his usual friendly smile. Then, after a moment, he turned back to Maria. "This is for the police, you say?" he asked. He paused a moment, looking away again, then looked up at the gathered group of people. "Guys," he said, raising his voice slightly. As soon as he did that, almost everyone in the room turned to look at him. It was obvious who held the power here.

Gerald paused, swallowing, then addressed the gathered group again. "I'm… really sorry, guys," he said, "but, um, I'm going to have to cancel today's meeting." There was a buzzing of slight confusion among the gathered group, but Gerald put up a hand and everyone got quiet again. "I know, I know it's horrible of me to do it," he said. "But… something really important has come up, and…" He paused, sighing. "Look, why don't we reschedule the meeting for this Saturday?" he said. "Same place, same time?"

There was a hesitation among the crowd. People shifted uncomfortably, murmuring to one another, unsure of what to do or say. Then Eddie spoke up. "C'mon, guys," he said, "Ger's always been there for us. He's got something important to do, it's gotta be real important, or else he would do the meeting." The crowd murmured its consent. "If he's got something real important, then we don't wanna be a hindrance," Eddie said. "C'mon. Saturday's just as good as today." He chuckled. "I mean, none of us are gonna _die_ between now and then. It's only two days, guys!"

A couple people chuckled nervously in response, and Eddie looked up at Gerald, as if expecting praise for his actions. Gerald smiled at him and nodded his thanks. Eddie beamed, then started ushering people towards the doors. Gerald raised his eyebrows and turned back to Maria with a relieved smile. "I've never cancelled a meeting before," he told her. "But this seemed important."

As soon as everyone was gone, Gerald sat down in one of the chairs, then indicated for her to take a seat as well. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and folding his hands together, staring at her. "So," he said, the friendly smile fading from his face.

"What would you like to know… about my son?"

_Oh my God._

Maria sat back down with a hard _thud_, bracing her head with her hands and just breathing. She didn't notice when Aidan put a hand on her shoulder, asking if she was okay, or when his expression hardened and he turned away with a frustrated sigh. She didn't even notice when the door shut on the last person, and she was left alone in the room with Jonathan Crane's father.

This was...this was impossible. Her heartbeat finally started to calm down and the risk of a panic attack vanished as she thought it over. So Gerald was the man who had gotten Crane's mother pregnant. Maria smiled at the obvious thought, but it slipped away quickly. But Gerald didn't seem like the sort of man who would do something like that. She peered through her arched fingers at the man. A leader of an Alcoholic Anonymous group, a volunteer worker at Arkham...none of it added up.

Finally she looked back up at Gerald. "You...you really don't watch the news do you?" she asked with a very weak smile. She leaned back in her chair and avoided his eyes. Now that she knew, it was just that much more unnerving. "Your..._son_..." she said, the word sticking in her mouth, "almost completely destroyed the Narrows a while back. _And_ the rest of Gotham, too."

Gerald frowned, sitting back in his chair. "No, I don't watch the news very much," he admitted, "Oh dear." He looked away, resting one ankle on his opposite knee. "I always imagined Jonathan would have _something_ wrong with him," he said, putting a thoughtful hand to his chin. "Being raised by that psychotic grandmother of his…" He shook his head. Then he turned to Maria. "Do you know Jonathan's story?" he asked. Then he shook his head. "It's not really my place to tell," he said.

He paused a moment, then looked over at her again. "You know, he's thirty-three now," he said thoughtfully, a surprised frown creasing his forehead. He shook his head slowly. "And I've never seen him," he said quietly. "I wonder who he looks like…" A slight, sad smile quirked at the edge of his mouth. "I certainly hope he has his mother's eyes," he said. "She had the most beautiful brown eyes."

Gerald looked up at her then. "I only learned that Jonathan was living in Gotham about eight years ago," he said, "when he started working at Arkham. I had gotten information from Jessica about the new intern who had started work there, and I was so surprised when she told me his name…" He watched her face for a long moment, as if thinking something over. "When she told me his name was Jonathan Crane, I was… so taken aback. And then she told me his age…" He shrugged then, looking away. "And it all fit."

He looked up at her then, raising his eyebrows as if he had left out an important detail. "Oh," he said. "My name is Gerald Crane. So you can imagine my surprise when… this man showed up." He looked away again with a heavy sigh, shaking his head. "I never thought he would turn out to be…" He paused, trying to find a word. "…Bad," he finally said, the only fitting word he could find.

His light blue eyes flicked back to Maria. "But Arkham does that to a person, I suppose," he said. "It's a wonder Jessica hasn't had something terrible happen to her yet…" He shrugged with a sad, friendly smile. "Is there anything else you'd like to know?" he asked. "Sorry I'm not much help… I'm kind-of one of Gotham's forgotten."

Anger wasn't exactly the emotion Maria had expected to feel, but it certainly was the one forcing her to clench her fists and grit her teeth. Gerald's innocent misunderstanding of the situation was making her mad. And why? She couldn't even begin to guess. Maybe it was because it wasn't fair for the man partly responsible for this whole thing to be innocent of the crime. Or maybe it was because she was jealous that he still had the luxury of that innocence.

Either way Maria looked away from him and gave an exasperated sigh. "I went to Arkham to interview him a few weeks back. So yes, I _know his story_." She sharply met Gerald's eyes again. "And it's not Arkham that did this to him. It's his screwed-up childhood. You think he would've shot your friend Jessica in the back of the head just because he spent some time in an asylum?" She stood up and planted her hands on her hips. "Did you think it'd be _okay_ to just abandon a woman who you'd gotten pregnant? How could you just leave like that, _especially_ knowing what her mother was like?" Her voice was close to shouting at this point. She tried to calm herself, failed miserably, and began to head for the door.

He couldn't help her with anything. He was too busy living in his fantasy world where his son was just a little off from dealing with psychopaths for a few years. Gerald obviously needed to be brought back to reality, but she wasn't the one to do it. She reached the doors and pushed them open, finally pausing to look back. "If you have any idea where he's been staying, it'd be really appreciated," she said angrily.

Gerald frowned. "Now, wait just a moment," he said, standing from his seat. He paused, trying to collect his head, taking a deep breath, holding his hands in front of him. Then he let out his breath slowly, lowering his hands, and locked her with an unamused, cold, tight-lipped stare. He jerked his head slightly, considering how to deal with her, and finally looked back up at her. "That's not," he said, articulating, his words quiet and biting, "how it was."

He let his hands fall to his sides, and, after a moment, they folded loosely behind his back, and he stared at her, breathing slowly. Then he started towards her, slowly. "Jonathan's mother," he said, "was the love of my life. We were going to be married. But then her mother…" The word came out in a hiss. "Her… _máthair_." He clenched his jaw, swallowing. "She said she didn't approve of me because I was… _afflicted._"

Gerald looked back up at Maria, frowning darkly. "Do you know why I started this group in the first place?" he asked, his voice quiet and almost dangerous. "Because I was one of them, once. One of the drunks. One of the freaks." He fleetingly looked away, at some of the motivational posters on the walls, and then his gaze returned to Maria. "Yes, she got pregnant," he said. "But we were in love. We were going to be married. But her mother would not let me stay around." He sneered. "She sent me away, and forbade me from seeing Jonathan's mother or Jonathan."

He watched her face for a long moment. "I only got one letter after that," he said. "Jonathan's mother wrote to me, telling me it was a healthy baby boy. That was the last I heard of either of them… until a Doctor Jonathan Crane showed up at Arkham eight years ago." He turned his head slightly, still looking at her, and loosed his hands from behind his back to clasp them in front of him. "You can imagine my surprise," he said. "…When my son tried to wipe out Gotham with its own fear."

He sighed then. "Then again," he said quietly, his eyes straying, "I guess I shouldn't really be surprised… considering his upbringing."

He paused a moment, then his light-blue gaze returned to her. "If I'm not mistaken, Jonathan's mother is still alive," he said. "No more children, though… Married now, to some nobody…" He sighed again, his hands seeming to clasp tighter. Then he looked over at her, dropping his clasped hands to his sides, and a veil seemed to pass away from in front of his lucid eyes. He paused a moment, then a friendly, if somewhat vague, smile came to his face.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I have no idea where he's been staying… after he left Arkham, I haven't heard a thing about him. Though, from what I can tell, he's very, very driven. So… if he has a goal, or if he had a goal, when he left Arkham, unless something enormous has happened that absolutely screams _Jonathan…_" He shrugged, frowning slightly. "There's a good chance he's still going after it," he said.

Then he smiled at her, a little sadly. "I guess there's no chance you'll be attending our next meeting, huh?" he asked. "It's a pity. Eddie seemed to take a shine to you. He doesn't do that with very many people." He shrugged then, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his slacks. "He's a little _off,_" he said. "He's trying so hard to make friends… he's just…" He paused for a moment, thinking, then looked back at Maria. "He's not a very good judge of character most of the time," he said. "I was hoping he might be able to find a friend who would actually be a friend."

Gerald looked away. "But that's okay," he said. "I've probably scared you off from ever coming back, and… if you don't ever come back, then I'll understand." He sighed then. "It's happened before," he said quietly. "Scaring people off."

Maria sighed. "No, I'm...sorry," she said, offering Gerald a half-smile. Now that she knew the reasons behind him leaving, what she'd said was just plain rude. "I didn't mean to...y'know. I'm sorry." She scratched her ear absentmindedly and thought about his advice.

What had Crane been after when he first broke out of Arkham? She had no idea. Freedom was the obvious answer, but...well, he _had_ that. So what was next? Maybe he was still working with his fear toxin. Or maybe he wanted money. She scuffed her foot on the ground, frustrated, and wished she was better at reading people. Maybe she'd go through the notes from her interviews that night.

Then she looked back up. "I'll consider it," she responded to his offer to come to another meeting. In all honesty, she probably wouldn't go. She was pretty sure that Aidan was ticked beyond belief at her, and he was her reason for going in the first place. But she offered Gerald a smile. "Maybe I could come to see Eddie again."

With that and a quiet "thank you", she left the building.

And ran right into Aidan, who was waiting outside.

"So how'd your...interview go?" he asked, hands crossed, foot tapping lightly on the ground. Maria looked away guiltily.

"It was...listen, Aidan," she said, suddenly switching tracks, "I'm really sorry. I _did_ lie. But I want to make up for it." She felt horrible about using him just to get information. But how could she make him believe that?

He just laughed. "You manipulated me to get to this guy, and now you're saying you want to make up for it?" He blew out a sigh and backed up a step, looking her over. "What makes you think I should believe you're being serious?" He smiled at her bitterly. "Y'know, the way I see it, you don't have the best track record."

"But I _do_ want to make up for it," she said seriously. He watched her for a moment, then shrugged. He had nothing else to lose, after all.

"Alright. We can just meet here, if you want to." He nodded, then waved goodbye and walked away, wondering why everything felt so mixed up.


	30. Chapter TwentyNine

_The sheer perfection of a fire never ceased to amaze Flicker._

_She watched the bright flames dancing around her neighbors' doghouse, eyeing the way they twirled around in the air and lapped at the old, rotting wood it consumed. She sighed contentedly, then turned and headed down the street, tucking her lighter into her pocket with one hand and banging the container of gasoline against her hip with the other._

_The neighbors had been out of town for nearly a week, with their pet staying at a friend's house, so the doghouse had been a perfect target for Flick's aggression. She grinned and shot another look back at the raging fire. It was early in the evening; soon, someone would notice the smell of smoke and raise the alarm. No real damage would be done, but she didn't care at this point. She wouldn't be around to reap the benefits of it anyways. She was finally leaving._

_Even though her plans to leave home were haphazard, Flicker felt very comfortable with her idea. She'd packed her most important things into a few suitcases and was ready to hitch rides away from her hometown. She wasn't sure where she was going, but it didn't matter as long as it was not here. And she was happy. That was the most important thing._

_The smile slipped from her face as a sudden stranger stepped out from behind a light post. She pulled her lighter out and held it above her head in a threatening post. "What the hell d'you want?" she asked loudly, ready to drop the gas and fight if need be. She hadn't quite gotten used to being back in the suburbs; at college, any meeting on the street usually meant a fight._

_Then she realized who the brown-haired stranger was, and she dropped her arm. Brian's dull blue eyes were sad; she avoided them, putting the lighter back in her pocket. "You're...you're leaving." She looked up sharply, eyeing her brother, then nodded._

_He sighed and laced his fingers behind his head. "I don't get it, Carly. You're smart - you always have been. Mum and dad used to adore you. And now..."_

_"And now they don't. And I'm done with it." Flicker's tone was flat; her brother's usage of her name was irritating her. She only went by the nickname her gang friends back at school had given her, but Brian had refused to call her it. She watched him for a minute, feeling a little bit of sadness. If she never saw her parents again, she'd be happy. Brian she'd miss._

_Then she dug into her pocket, pulling out the lighter for the last time and tossing it his way. He caught it awkwardly, looking at it and then up at her. "Wreak some havoc, Brian," she told him with a grin. "Screw the world over before it can get to you. Make me proud, kid." She patted the thirteen-year-old's shoulder, smiled at him the last time, and walked away._

_A month later, Flicker got her last call from her dad. He told her that Brian had been caught in a house fire and suffocated. He was found in her room, near the closet, holding the box of trinkets she had left behind and her lighter. A half-melted container of lighter fluid lay in the living room; it had been emptied on the nearby furniture before the fire began. The fire, firefighters said, was arson._

_And Brian was the culprit._

_. . ._

Nobody had an alarm system in the lower parts of Gotham, because everyone knew that, even if they called the police, they would not come - or they would come too late to make a difference. So it was an easy decision to break into a house whose newspapers were piling up on the porch and which had no car in the driveway. Obviously the family who lived there had gone on vacation - or had been killed, and no one had bothered to take care of their house yet. Either was perfectly possible in a city like Gotham.

It infuriated Crane to see the headlines stacked up by the front door: 'Homicidal Maniac Escapes from Prison', 'The Joker Destroys Police Station', and 'City Suffers under Jester of Crime' sat on top of the pile. He clenched his teeth, but said nothing as he reached through the broken glass of the front door window and unlocked the door from the inside. Soon this pathetic city would see who was to be more feared.

Everyone had been given rooms in the house; Jeanette and Goodhart were to share a room, since Crane knew that Goodhart would not touch Jeanette and, even if he did, Jeanette was perfectly capable of handling herself. Goodhart had been instructed to guard the door during the night so Jeanette did not try to get out - handcuffed or not - to warn Jack Napier. Crane was sure the lug would fall asleep on the job, but it was still a bit reassuring that he had not relented and taken off Jeanette's handcuffs. At least she would have a difficult time opening the door, if she did try to escape. Or climb out the window. The thought brought a cruel smile to his face. That would be an interesting sight, indeed.

Flicker had been put into a room with Jeannie Rose. If she woke in the middle of the night, she could calm her sensitive streak by tending to the child. If she decided to run, she would not take the child without its mother, Crane assured himself. Her newly-found sensitivity would prohibit her from tearing one away from the other. And even if she did decide to run off with Jeannie Rose - which he highly doubted - he still had Kitty, and that was more than enough leverage.

More than leverage, he _preferred_ Kitty without her screaming brat.

Crane had set aside the master bedroom for himself and Kitty. He did not want her running off, after all, he had explained. And it would be best if he were to take the responsibility of making sure she did not into his own hands. Of course, no one believed a word of it. But that was all right with Crane; he knew they would not. It did not really matter what they thought, though. It was not any of their business what happened behind closed doors.

Crane slowly approached Kitty, staring her down. Kitty stared right back, standing her ground, holding a handful of her skirt in one limp fist as she watched his meticulous approach. He folded his hands behind his back as he drew near her, a strange half-grin forming on his lips. He finally stopped when he stood before her, staring down into her face, his eyes locking with hers. She stared right back. "Kitty," he said.

She hesitated, then replied quietly, "Doctor Crane."

His grin widened. "You've finally decided to speak to me," he said. Kitty stared at him, watching his eyes. She let go of her skirt and let her hands rest at her sides. Crane's eyes flicked to her hands, then back to her face. That could either be very good, or very bad. He inhaled slowly, then removed his glasses, tucking them into his breast pocket. He cleared his throat, watching her expression, but it did not change from the stolid, almost determined, but mostly blank expression she now held. He wondered if this was the face of someone who had completely lost their spirit. He took a step closer to her, leaned down to her ear, and, taking a deep breath, whispered, "A man like Jack Napier doesn't really deserve… a woman like you."

Crane started to move back to his original position, standing over her, when she suddenly took his face in her hands and brought his lips to hers, kissing him. His eyebrows shot up and his eyes widened in surprise, and he took a step back, putting a shocked hand lightly to his lips and staring at her. Then, taking his hand from his mouth, Crane moved forward, took Kitty's face in his hands, and started to kiss her.

Kitty reached around his slender form, her hands running down his back, until she found his waist, and the waistline of his slacks. She felt gingerly about for a moment, and then, with a wave of euphoria, her fingers found the butt of the handgun. She took it in her fingers, starting to slowly slip it out of the waist of his slacks…

When he suddenly grabbed her wrist.

The kiss broke off abruptly. Kitty looked up at Crane in shock, and his light-blue eyes bore into hers, his expression dark and unamused. "_Striapach,_" he hissed. He grabbed the gun from her hand and struck her across the face with the back of his free hand. She stumbled back a few steps, putting a shocked hand to her face, tears welling up in her eyes. He held the gun, cocking back the hammer, and approached her, grabbing her wrist so she could not run away. "You wanted to kill me, didn't you?" he asked sharply. He jerked her back by the wrist. "_Didn't_ you?" he demanded.

"You're hurting me!" she cried, a tear trailing down her cheek.

He let go of her wrist as if releasing something vile, and she tended to it. "_Nobody_ gets the better of _me!_" he shouted. "Do you hear me?! _Nobody!_" Kitty nodded, tears pouring down her face as she cringed away from him. He moved forward, pulling a set of keys from his pocket and shoving it in her face, jingling it threateningly. "You probably wanted these, too, didn't you?" he asked accusingly. "To free your little friend. _Didn't _you?"

She shook her head, crying. "No," she said weakly.

"You lying whore!" he said, and struck her across the face again.

She staggered back another step and put a hand to her face. "Please, stop it!" she sobbed.

"You want me to stop it?" he asked. He locked back the safety on the gun, then threw the gun and the keys to the floor and grabbed Kitty, pressing her lips to his in a deep kiss. "You want me to stop it?!" he demanded, panting, a mad, lustful look in his lucid eyes. A cruel grin began to creep at the corners of his mouth. "You want me to stop?" he asked again. He smiled coldly at her, looked her up and down once, his breathing slowing. Then his eyes returned to her face.

"You know what to do," he told her.

. . .

As immature as staring contests were, Jeanette was actually having fun with this one.

She'd gone quietly to her room, prodded up the stairs by Goodhart, and settled down immediately on the bed, leaving him to find a seat on the floor with an irritated grunt. After a few minutes of inspecting the room, noting especially the door to the hallway and the window, she turned her eyes to the man. He stared right on back.

And that was how their little contest had begun.

Neither one would blink; Goodhart, because it would hurt his pride (and that was pretty much all he had left), and Jeanette because she could see that it was getting the big guy angry. She finally cracked a grin and, being careful not to blink, said, "So."

"So."

"So you teamed up with the lunatic upstairs to find your daughter." It was idle chatter to distract him, more than anything; under the unfortunate circumstances, it seemed that she'd have to knock Goodhart out. Not that she cared. It was just that she'd have to do it in a way that wouldn't make any sound. A silent getaway would be best. Even if she had the gun, the thought of Jonathan Crane coming after her in the dark was not an appealing one.

Goodhart turned his head away with a scowl. "Yes," he replied grudgingly. Then the words just started coming out. "But I don't know how the hell he knows her, or if he's lying, or..." What _if_ the doctor was tricking him, just using the information about his daughter to get some free backup? Goodhart ground his teeth and his hands balled into fists. Jeanette watched him carefully, then blinked.

"Which he very well could be," she suggested with a shrug. Goodhart looked up at her with narrowed eyes. She shrugged again. "All I'm saying is that the guy's not exactly known for his honesty." She sighed and looked at the window again. "But if you want to work with him, that's your prerogative."

"I know what you're doing," Goodhart said suddenly with a frown. He pointed a finger at her as if scolding a child. Jeanette just smiled more widely and raised her eyebrows. "You think you can trick me into getting on your side. Then you'll get away." He nodded to himself.

Jeanette bent over and laughed hard. When she was done, she met Goodhart's furious gaze and waggled her eyebrows at him. "Figured that out all on your own?" She looked at the ceiling and blew out a sigh. "Now," she began, getting off of the bed and pacing in front of him, "if I _really_ wanted to get away..."

She paused and looked at him for a moment before swinging her foot into the side of his head. It connected with a dull _thud_. He went slack instantly, drooping into the door, and she shook her head sadly. "I'd do _that_," she finished. What an idiot. He was good for nothing but muscle, and he couldn't even use that. She shoved him out of the way awkwardly with her feet, gritting her teeth at the inconvenience of the handcuffs, and opened the door as quietly as possible.

Hopefully, Kitty would be able to get the gun and keys soon. If not...Jeanette didn't really want to think about that.

. . .

Kitty lay with her eyes open, staring at the wall, trying to discern the mix of feelings she was experiencing. It all seemed too sudden; it was all too much. She gripped the pillow tightly in one fist, using the other to wrap the bed sheet around her shoulders, hiding her form from the world. She felt unclean. She refused to look at the man sleeping next to her, for fear that looking at him, seeing that it was really he who lay beside her, the man who had stripped her of her dignity and her pride, would send her over the edge.

More than once she had considered ending it all; it would be so easy for someone as small and fragile as herself to get into a situation that would potentially end up being fatal. But then her thoughts turned to Jeannie Rose. Even if everything looked bleak for Kitty, there was no way she would leave her daughter in the hands of these crazies. She sighed, turning onto her back and staring at the ceiling. There was no way she would be getting any sleep tonight. Her thoughts were spinning around in her head too fast.

Kitty pushed her bangs from her eyes, feeling her warm face, wiping away the remnants of her earlier tears. Her cheek was still slightly balmy where she had been struck. She put a cool hand to her cheek, staring up at the ceiling. She must have been an idiot, she thought, to try to do anything heroic like trying to steal a gun and a set of keys from someone like Jonathan Crane. At the moment, her only goal was to get out of this situation alive and without getting Jeannie Rose hurt. That was hard enough as it was.

She hesitated a moment, staring at the ceiling, then looked over at Crane. He was asleep, his eyes and mouth closed, breathing quietly, one of his hands laying, halfway closed, on his pillow by his head. She could not help but notice that he had freckles on his shoulders, and for some strange reason, he suddenly seemed less evil. But she soon pushed the thought from her head. Nothing physical could make a man more or less evil, especially a man as utterly wicked as Jonathan Crane.

Just then, realization dawned on her. She stared at Crane, watching him sleeping silently, and a determined frown came to her face. The fact was not that he was sleeping next to her…

The fact was, he was _sleeping._

Very slowly, Kitty pushed the covers off of herself and swung her legs out of bed, putting her small feet softly on the floor, which was thankfully carpeted. Very slowly and very cautiously, Kitty pulled on her clothes, not bothering to zip up her dress for fear of waking him with the sound. She turned towards the door to leave when suddenly caught her attention. They keys were sitting on the floor on Crane's side of the bed, where he had thrown them down. Beside them sat the gun.

Kitty hesitated, looking up at Crane, and, seeing that he was still asleep, she started very slowly towards the keys. With the edge of her dress, Kitty cradled the keys up into her hands, making sure to wrap them in the folds of her skirt so they would not jingle. Then she looked over at the gun. Her pulse began to quicken as she reached for the weapon, and a shock of cold went through her skin as she picked it up and looked at it. She had never held a gun before, that she knew of. The cold metal against her skin felt unnatural and alien. She stood up, staring at the gun.

Then she looked over at Crane.

It was a crazy thought… but she was just crazy enough to do it.

Kitty moved slowly and cautiously towards the bed, and towards Crane. The hand holding the gun began to shake slightly, but she stopped it with a steadying breath. She padded up to the edge of the bed, pointed the gun at Crane, and cocked back the hammer.

Instantly, Crane's eyes opened.

He did not seem surprised at all to see her standing there. He stared at her for a long moment, his face blank. Then a cold grin spread across his lips. "Do it, Kitty," he said.

Kitty stared at him, frowning, and her hand started shaking again. "I _should_ do it," she said. She took a shuddering breath, trying to steady herself. "I _should_ do it," she repeated. "You _deserve_ it." She glared at him, trying to hold the gun steady. "You…" she said, her voice shaking. "You… are… evil."

He grinned at her. "Evil?" he asked. Then he shook his head, slowly. "No, Kitty," he said. "I'm not evil."

She glared at him, holding the gun even with his head. "How can you say that?" she asked. "How can you say you aren't evil… after all you've done?"

He shook his head again, staring at her, locking her eyes with his. "I'm not evil, Kitty," he repeated, his voice quiet and determined. "I'm just driven." He watched her face for a long moment. Then he blinked, meditatively. "You're running away, aren't you?" he asked.

Kitty hesitated, then nodded.

Crane nodded as well. "You'll never find him, you know," he told her. "Jack Napier. He doesn't come for just anyone."

"I'm not looking for Jack Napier," Kitty told him firmly.

"Then _what,_ Kitty?" asked Crane with a cold, almost mocking smile. "What are you looking for? Why would you run away if you weren't looking for something?" He stared at her. "You have nothing left," he reminded her slowly. "Where will you go? What's left for you out in that wide world?"

She swallowed, considering his question, then frowned deeply at him. "I don't know what I'm looking for," she told him. "But I know where I'm going… and that's as far as I can possibly get from you, and the rest of you lunatics." She lowered the gun, clicking back the safety, glaring at him.

He stared right back at her, the mocking smile gone from his face. "Suit yourself, Kitty," he said quietly. "It's a big world out there… A woman like you could get… swept away in the current."

She glared at him for a moment longer, then swallowed. "So be it," she said.

They stared at each other a moment longer, then Kitty turned and walked to the door. She reached out a hand for the doorknob when she heard behind her, "Oh, Kitty…" She paused, her blood running cold, then slowly turned to look at Crane. He was sitting up in bed, staring at her. A cold, knowing smile hung about the corners of his mouth.

"You think I don't know, Kitty," he told her. "But I know. I know, and you know… and soon, sooner than you think… the whole world will know." He stared at her for a long moment, locking her dull gaze with his crystalline one. "So don't think you can hide forever," he said. "Because soon, very soon… you won't be able to anymore."

Kitty stared at him for a long moment, fighting back a lump in her throat and a nauseous feeling in the pit of her stomach. She opened her mouth to say something, reconsidered, and closed it again. Then she turned back to the door, opened it, and went out into the hall.

She stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her. As soon as she was outside, all of her pent-up emotions came pouring out. She leaned back against the wall, and tears began pouring down her cheeks. She put her hand to her face, trying to get herself under control, but found that she could not. It was all too much. She finally gave up trying to stop herself, and leaned her head back against the wall, sobbing.

Jeanette was very surprised to see her chance for escape bent over in the hallway, crying her eyes out. She simply stared at Kitty for a moment, eyes slowly adjusting to the dark, before she noticed the glints of silver in the woman's hand.

A slow grin spread across Jeanette's face. The gun and the keys. She shut her eyes and tilted her head back in silent victory. Someone up there must like her.

She walked forward and stopped a few feet away from the crying woman, looking around awkwardly. "I'm...I'm sorry," she said in a hushed voice, very aware of the fact that they were still in the house and, thus, still in danger. She wasn't sure what she was sorry for, or why she even said it. Sympathy had never been one of her strong points. So she finally took a step back and a breath.

"Did you get the keys?" she asked, ignoring the gun for the moment. She didn't want to scare Kitty off by acting too desperate.

Kitty looked up at the sound of Jeanette's voice, sniffing. "Oh," she said sheepishly, wiping at her tears with the palm of her hand. "I'm sorry… I don't mean to be…" She sniffled again, looking up at Jeanette, and straightened up. She looked down at the objects in her hands, then nodded in response to Jeanette's question. "Mm-hm," she said, sniffing. She moved to Jeanette, taking the taller woman's cuffed wrists and unlocking them, then took a step back, holding the keys at her side.

"I, um…" she said hesitantly, looking down at the gun in her other hand. "I got this… too." She held out the gun to Jeanette, relieved to be rid of the weapon. She sighed, wiping tears from her face, and looked at her feet. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I'm not usually…" She wiped the tears from her face again, sniffing. Then she shook her head, looking up at Jeanette with a false brave smile. "I'm better now," she said quietly. "Just had a… moment."

She glanced down the hallway then, sniffing. "Do you know where Jeannie Rose is?" she asked, frowning slightly. She looked back at Jeanette. "We really can't leave without her," she said, sounding worried. "I… I have no idea who this Jack Napier is, but…" She bit her lip. "And I know she might slow us down, but…" She looked away. Then she looked back at Jeanette with a determined expression. "I won't leave without her," she said firmly.

Jeanette heaved a relieved sigh as the cool metal of the handcuffs finally slipped off her wrists. She rubbed them, inspecting the red rings where the cuffs had chafed her skin, then took the gun from Kitty. The feeling of it in her palm was like a drug, calming her immediately.

She stepped back and jerked her head towards the stairs. "Saw Goodhart take her and Flicker into a room downstairs," she said distractedly, checking the gun. It was fully loaded and didn't have a scratch on it. She wondered briefly where Crane had gotten his hands on it, then shrugged. It didn't matter.

She led the way down the stairs, letting Kitty go first and keeping an eye on the master bedroom door. She had no idea under what circumstances the woman had gotten the keys and gun, or if Crane was even awake. It never hurt to be careful. "Down that hallway, the door on the left," she told the woman once they reached the landing. Jeanette stopped and propped herself against the front door facing the stairs. If Crane tried to come down, he'd have a bullet in his foot before he could spew out any more of that nonsense he'd yelled at her earlier.

Kitty nodded, crossing her arms as she listened to the directions Jeanette gave. She looked down at her crossed arms, biting her lip, then looked up again and started for the room Jeanette had indicated. Now that she did not have to look at Jeanette, not try to feign bravery in her situation, she had time to think. If they were to run away, if they were really going to escape Crane and his maniacal plans for using her as leverage to lure Jack Napier into some kind of twisted trap, then where would they go? Moreover, what did Jeanette have in mind for them to do?

Kitty frowned, pausing as she reached the door Jeanette had indicated. If Jeanette wanted to bring her to Jack Napier, then would it be any better than just staying with Crane? Either way, she was going to be handed over to a mysterious, mentally unstable, potentially homicidal, and, moreover, very _large_ man. No matter how she looked at the situation, it looked undeniably bleak. But, she supposed, it was better to be in the company of someone who tried to be of the same mind frame as her, even if Jeanette could never truly understand how many conflicts raced through Kitty's mind at any given time.

Carly turned in her sleep. The dream about Brian had upset her a lot; she had tear-trails running down her cheeks. She didn't _want_ to think about him. That part of her life was over and dead. She drew Jeannie Rose, who was tucked under her arm on the bed, closer to herself, and sighed.

The blood flow from her mouth had thankfully stopped, leaving a crusted red line streaked down her chin. She had bruises across her cheekbone and the side of her head. Half-formed thoughts trailed lazily through her head, mostly about ways to get back at Crane and Goodhart.

Kitty opened the door and, like Jeanette had said, Flicker was lying there, and next to her lay Jeannie Rose. The two of them looked so peaceful that Kitty hated to disturb them, but she was not about to leave her daughter in the hands of mentally unstable people. She moved over to Flicker, kneeling beside her, and reached out a hand to take Jeannie Rose when she realized that Flicker was awake. She was surprised; she was sure that a blow like the one Goodhart had delivered to her would have had her out cold for a much longer time, but, she supposed, the world was full of surprises.

Kitty hesitated, drawing her hands away a bit, and bit her lip. "Flicker," she said gently. She paused, then reached out again, taking her daughter from Flicker's gentle grasp. "I'm sorry," she said. Kitty adjusted Jeannie Rose on her shoulder, making sure her head lay at a comfortable angle. She paused, then looked back up at Flicker. "We're leaving," she told her candidly. She put a hand to Jeannie Rose's head, making sure she was secure. "We're getting out."

Kitty stared at her for a long moment. She sighed slightly, hesitated, and then reached out a hand and wiped away a slight remnant of blood on her chin. She frowned, watching Flicker's face. "You should get out, too," she said quietly. She paused, staring at Flicker. "Before he kills you," she finished.

Carly came slowly back to reality when Jeannie Rose was taken from her, and she turned her head. They were leaving. Carly nodded; that was okay. That meant that Kitty would be safe from Crane. For a while, at least. And that innocent jogger could finally get back to whatever life she had.

With a reassuring smile (which was not all that reassuring, with her wince of pain from stretching the bruise on her cheek), she shook her head ever so slightly. "Naw, I'll...I'll be fine," she told Kitty. Remembering her and Brian's old tradition, she flashed the other woman a thumbs-up. "He tries anything…" She weakly punched her palm. "Y'know." She didn't bother mentioning Goodhart. Both of them knew from the little show last night that he could easily take her out.

Then she sighed and her expression turned sad. She avoided Kitty's eyes, looking instead at Jeannie Rose. "It's…not Flicker," she said after a long pause. She shut her eyes and turned her head back to the ceiling. "It's Carly." She bit her lip and tears wavered behind her eyelids. "I can't leave…" she mumbled to herself. "Because…maybe I can do something…to make up for it." The memory of her last conversation with Brian finally forced the tears out.

She was the one responsible for that fire. She'd given him he lighter. She'd taught him about how to start a fire many times before. And she was the one who'd left, informing him that life was so badly screwed that he might as well get out of it while he could. She moaned and turned to the wall, forgetting that Kitty was still there. "My fault," she whispered into the blankets, curling her knees up to her chest. She had never felt this awful. And she deserved it, she realized. She had killed her own brother.

She had to fix this.

Kitty frowned, holding Jeannie Rose close to her. She did not know what the girl - Carly, she said, was the name she preferred - was talking about, but it worried her. She seemed utterly bipolar, at best. Kitty knew she was just a scared, sensitive girl hiding inside a feisty, arson-loving shell, but there was nothing Kitty, who knew so little about herself, anyways, could think to do for the girl. She bit her lip, thinking silently, then turned back to Carly.

"You don't have to prove anything to anyone," she said quietly. "These people… they show no mercy. And I'm just afraid…" She bit her lip again, considering if she should share her concerns with Carly. Then she decided the girl was a good enough person to be told. "I'm just afraid he's going to target you next," she said, more quietly. She watched Carly's face for a moment. "He's a madman," she finally said. "And I don't think he'll have any qualms about killing any person in this group… not me, not the big man, not Jeanette… and not you."

She took a deep breath. "If you really feel you have something to prove," she said quietly. She paused, and then sighed and turned away. "I just don't want to see anything happen to you," she said as she reached the door. Kitty turned back around, looking at Carly again. She took a moment, considering her, and then shook her head. "I've seen enough horrors to last me the rest of my life in just the past five years," she said. "I can only imagine what someone as broken as you… has seen."

She put a hand to Jeannie Rose's head, making sure it was secure, then turned back towards the door. "No one ever said life would be easy," she said to Carly, not turning to face her. She paused, then glanced over her shoulder at the girl. "But we shouldn't do things just to make it harder," she told her. Then she quietly closed the door behind her.

"Broken..." Carly murmured as Kitty left and shut the door. "Broken." A bitter laugh forced its way out of her mouth, soon followed by another, and another, until she was bent over, laughing hysterically and crying at the same time. Maybe it would be for the best if Crane killed her. It would get rid of Flicker, at least. And maybe that would satisfy her parents.

Besides, Kitty was so, so wrong. Carly _did_ have to make everything harder for herself. It was only right that she suffer to repay the people she'd made to suffer. She stood up in a rage, grabbed an empty picture frame from the nearby night stand, and threw it at the door. It connected in a shattering crack with the wood, and she sat exhaustedly back down.

She was jealous. Kitty, at least, could look back at her decisions and say "I made the right choices. I did what I could to be a good person." But Carly...Carly would only ever be able to see what she had done to Brian. What she had done to all those people whose lives had gone up, literally, in flames, because of _Flicker._ She sighed and buried her head in her hands.

No matter what Kitty said, Carly was _always_ going to have to prove something to someone. And since she didn't have a clue how to do that, she'd just stay put where she was.

Jeanette turned from intently watching the stairs to Kitty as the woman walked into the main foyer. "That kid decided not to come?" she asked, the relief in her voice betraying what she really thought. She didn't trust Flicker as far as she could throw her. As far as she knew, the girl would run straight back to Crane as soon as she figured out where they were staying.

Kitty paused when Jeanette asked her question, then shook her head sadly. "She wanted to stay behind," she said. She rested her cheek against Jeannie Rose's head with a heavy sigh. "She seems so troubled," she said quietly. "I don't want anything to happen to her… but she insisted on staying."

Kitty looked away. "I guess she still had work to do," she said. "Some… unfinished business to attend to." She looked back up at Jeanette. "I just hope it doesn't end up… fatal," she said quietly.

Kitty reached down, readjusting her skirt, then cleared her throat gently and looked up at Jeanette again. "We should go," she said, a bit more determined, "before he decides he wants to come after us." Her eyes moved to the door of the master bedroom, and she frowned. "Though he didn't seem to be in any hurry," she said thoughtfully, slightly worried.

Jeanette ended up shrugging, indifferent to Flicker's situation. "If she didn't want to come, she must have had a reason," she told the other woman, pushing open the front door and letting Kitty leave first. "Kids like that never think things through anyways."

The bit about Crane made Jeanette wonder, though. What was he plotting? She paused once they got out in the street and turned around. Sure enough, there was the faint outline of a man's head peering out of the dirty master bedroom window. She grinned and cocked the gun, then fired a warning shot into the brick next to the window. If they were lucky, no one would be stupid enough to question it; they were in the Narrows, for God's sake. She patted the weapon and tucked it into her pocket. She couldn't wait to get her hands on her sniper rifle again.

But going to the hotel that night was out of the question. Kitty was probably tired, and Jeanette could use some sleep as well. So she led the woman instead to her fallback apartment, pre-paid for in case of an emergency, which was a few miles away. The long walk cleared Jeanette's head. The next morning, she'd start tracking Napier. He couldn't be that hard to find; she'd start at the hotel and work from there. There was probably a trail of destruction to follow.

Once they reached the tiny apartment, she immediately lay down on the couch, telling Kitty to take the bed in the single bedroom. Realizing how habitual this seemed, Jeanette settled onto her temporary bed and turned off the lights.


	31. Chapter Thirty

Napier hated mornings. More than mornings, he hated hangovers. But the two together were the worst.

He opened his eyes, squinting them against the sunlight that was coming in through the apartment windows, and groaned, putting a hand to his head. "What the hell," he mumbled, closing his eyes and scrubbing his face with his hands. "Fucking masochistic, 's what." He took his hands away from his face and rested them on his bare stomach. Then he frowned, opening his eyes, and leaned forward slightly, looking down his body. "What the hell?" he asked again. "Since when…?"

He sat up in bed, wavering slightly, and then turned to look behind him at the other side of the bed. There was the faintest indent of another body there. His brow furrowed slightly. "Kitty…?" he mumbled. Napier felt a slight throbbing start up on his shoulder, and he glanced over at it, putting a confused hand gingerly over the reddened, slightly swollen skin. Then he put a hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What…" he moaned.

He let the hand drop back to his bare lap, staring down at it. Then he looked up, towards the bathroom. "I gotta piss," he said blurrily. He pushed himself off from the bed and staggered to the bathroom, where he pushed up the seat and, with a sigh, set to work.

Napier hummed no particular tune, looking around the bathroom, until he happened to glance behind him. He instantly stopped humming. There was a dead, naked girl lying on the floor. She was sprawled across the tiles, her hair and face soaking wet, a pool of water around her head and shoulders, her eyes wide open and glassy.

Well, that was awkward.

Napier went back to humming, turning his face away from the corpse, wetting his lips, but his attention was drawn back to the body. He cleared his throat, beginning to rock slightly on the balls of his feet and starting to hum louder. Then he started to whistle uncomfortably. "Fucking," he mumbled, frowning down. "Be done already!" He knew that if he were to stop drinking, he would not have this problem. Then again, he reasoned with another fleeting glance over his shoulder, it was not every day that you found a dead girl in your bathroom.

Finally finished, Napier went through the motions, then turned to look at the dead girl. He started to reach out a hand to touch her, but then decided against it. His morbid fascination only went so far. He hesitated, staring at her. He looked left and right, as if he were afraid he were being watched, then looked back down at the girl. Then he nudged the corpse with his foot. "Hey," he said. "You dead?" She did not respond, so he took it as a yes.

Napier frowned slightly, staring down at the girl. "Oh, dear," he said, slightly sarcastic, folding one arm across his stomach and resting his elbow on it, putting a thoughtful hand on his chin. "What _am_ I going to do with you?"

Then he stopped, and turned away from the girl, looking back into the bedroom. He wet his lips thoughtfully, taking in his surroundings. It was an okay apartment, he decided. Better than okay, really. At least, it was a lot better than living on the street. It was quaint, with a bedroom, kitchen, bathroom… very simple. In the bedroom, his bum clothing lay on the floor next to his side of the bed. On her side of the bed, her nurse's dress lay folded neatly over the back of a chair. He paused, staring out into the bedroom, considering the situation. Then he remembered her words from the night before. "Nobody ever asks questions 'round here," he repeated to himself.

He stared into the bedroom for another long moment. Then he looked back at the girl, and, as he stared at her, a wry, mischievous grin began to spread across his face.

"Oh, dear," he said again, in a very different tone of voice.

. . .

Harvey Dent's eyes opened as soon as he heard the door of his cell unlocked.

He sat up, looking over at the officers who stood in the doorway. One was a somewhat bored-looking, slightly paunchy officer, but the other man looking in at him with a friendly, welcoming smile was Officer Gordon. Dent smiled at the man, getting to his feet and crossing to him, holding out his hand for Gordon's. "Gordon," he said with a signature grin. "Good to see you."

"How ya doin', Harvey?" Gordon asked, shaking Dent's hand and clapping him on the back.

"Oh, same old," Dent replied with a chuckle. "Can't say I have much to complain about; only been in here for a couple days. It's not as bad as I would've thought."

"Well, we try," Gordon replied. Then he stepped out of the way, allowing Harvey to walk past.

Dent stepped out of the cell and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "Ah, the smell of freedom," he said with a grin, looking over at Gordon. Gordon chuckled and closed the door of the cell behind him. Dent smiled at him, crossing his arms. "Well, you seem to be in a good mood, Officer," he said.

Gordon nodded, indicating for Dent to start walking towards the exit of the police station, which Dent was only too happy to do. "Sarah and I just adopted," he said, beaming.

"Oh, that's great, Gordon," Dent said, smiling sincerely over at him. "What's his name?"

"Uh, _her_ name is Olivia," Gordon said. "And she's six."

"Six years old? So young," Dent said. "And how are your other kids taking to her?"

"Oh, Barb's just wild about her," Gordon chuckled. "And Jimmy, he took a little getting used to her, but he's just ecstatic about being a big brother now."

"That's great," said Dent, smiling. He looked up as they reached the doors of the police station, then checked his watch and looked back at Gordon. "Listen, Gordon," he said, looking up at Gordon with a real, sincere smile, "thank you so much for all you did. I never would've gotten out so soon if it hadn't been for you…"

"Harvey, please," Gordon said, raising a hand. "I was only doing for you what you would've done for any good person in Gotham." He smiled at him. "You're Gotham's White Knight, after all. It would ruin your public image to be behind bars for too long."

Dent shrugged, chuckling. "I'm not too worried about my image," he said, and flashed Gordon a signature boxy smile. "I think I got that covered."

Gordon laughed. "Well, you're free to go, if you wish," he said, indicating the doors.

Dent smiled at him, thankful. "I'll remember you, Gordon," he said, nodding to him. Then he turned and walked out the doors.

Gordon sighed, folding his arms. "I doubt it," he said sadly. Then he turned and headed back to his desk to get to work.

. . .

Jarvis Tetch was always the first person into work at WayneTech, and was usually the last person to go home, but it never bothered him. He liked the alone time, and the atmosphere was calming. Nobody there called him 'strange' or commented on how he looked, unless it was to compliment him on the colour of his bowtie. Today's was bright purple. People at WayneTech seemed to love his eccentricities, as opposed to the people of the outside world. Tetch felt, for the most part, at home at WayneTech.

The only problem was that his ideas never seemed to make it to the production stage. He had found himself on a constant revolving door of overlooking the ideas of others, giving suggestions and making adjustments so that their inventions worked to the best possibly degree. He sighed, turning a page of his book, and kept reading. It was nice when no one else was there. It gave him time to think…

"TETCH!"

Tetch jumped into the air, dropping his book to the floor as he turned around to see who had addressed him so suddenly. "I didn't do it!" he exclaimed. Then he stopped, putting a hand to his chest to steady his racing pulse. Lucius Fox was almost in tears in laughter behind him.

"Oh," he said, clapping his hands. "That never gets old, Jarvis."

"Hm," Tetch frowned slightly, picking up his book off the floor and setting it down on his desk. "I'm sure it doesn't."

"Oh, Tetch, you know it's all in jest," said Fox, patting him reassuringly on the back. "I would never do anything that would actually hurt you." He sighed, wiping away the starts of tears from his eyes with the palm of his hand. "You need to get more sleep or something, settle those nerves of yours. You always work so late at night, and come in so early…"

"I'm fine," Tetch assured him. "I don't really need all that much sleep."

"Are you sure?" Fox asked. "I'm a little worried about you. In fact, that's what I came over to ask you about." He cleared his throat, crossing his arms across his chest and looking down at Tetch like a kindly, concerned uncle. "Do you want to take some time off?" he asked. "I'm sure Mister Wayne would be happy to give you a paid vacation. I'd even put in a good word for you."

Tetch looked up at Fox in interest. "That's what you wanted to ask?" he asked him, surprised.

Fox nodded. "You're a good man, Jarvis," he said. "I mean, I know I tease you a lot, but… I'm kinda fond of you." He smiled at him. "You nut," he added playfully.

Tetch smiled sheepishly, looking at the paperwork on his desk. "Are you sure you're not just trying to get rid of me so you don't have to listen to my stupid ideas, Lucius?" he asked, sorting through a couple of the papers on his desk.

Lucius frowned slightly. "Your ideas aren't _stupid,_ Jarvis," he told him, a little firmly. "They're just… not what WayneTech is looking to make at the moment."

"As opposed to _electric cloth?_" Jarvis asked, perhaps a bit too sharply. He looked away, back at his papers, wishing he had not said anything. "Sorry," he said quietly.

"No, that's okay," Fox said, his eyebrows raised. He took a deep breath, then let it out in a huff, letting his hands fall back to his sides. "Jarv, everything WayneTech makes has a _purpose,_" he said. "I just don't think the things you come up with… _fit,_ into that purpose." He looked back at the man. "You understand what I'm saying?" he asked.

"Yes," said Jarvis. "That my ideas are stupid."

"I didn't say -" Fox started, then sighed. "Look, Jarvis," he said. "Your ideas are brilliant. They're beyond our time. Which means, they're beyond the capabilities of the people working at WayneTech."

Tetch looked up at this. "You mean," he said, "you didn't like my ideas… because they were too _good?_"

"Exactly," said Fox, sounding relieved. "That's _exactly_ what I mean." He smiled reassuringly at Tetch. Tetch saw his smile, and he smiled back, his awkward, toothy grin. Then Fox patted him on the back. "Now, about that paid vacation…?" he said.

Tetch nodded, picking up his book from his desk. "I think," he said, "I'll take it." He beamed up at Fox, holding the book close to his chest. "I could use a nice, long vacation," he said.

Fox smiled, and gave him a friendly wink. "Smart man," he said.

. . .

Bruce Wayne pulled on his shirt and buttoned it up, sitting on the edge of his bed in a pair of slacks he wore for informal meetings and his socks. His shoes lay off to the side, and his jacket lay across the back of a nearby chair. He reached down, pulling his shoes towards himself, and slipped one on, tying it up, and then the other. He looked up to see Alfred standing in the doorway, watching him.

"Going somewhere, Master Wayne?" Alfred asked.

Wayne nodded, getting to his feet and picking up his jacket. "I'm going to go pay Olivia a visit," he said, slipping it on and starting to button it up.

"Is this Olivia a friend of yours?" asked Alfred.

Wayne considered his question for a moment, finishing buttoning his jacket, and then answered with a smile, "You could say that."

"Ah, a lady friend," said Alfred with a half-grin. "Are you attempting to gain the attention of Miss Dawes by making her jealous again?"

Wayne chuckled. "No, I don't think so," he said. "Not this time. Something tells me she wouldn't be jealous of me going to visit a _six-year-old._"

Alfred raised his eyebrows. "That depends on your definition of _'visit',_ Sir," he replied.

Wayne looked up at him, a still amused, though now slightly mortified look on his face. "Always know just what to say, don't you, Alfred?" he asked.

Alfred shrugged. "It's a gift," he said, smiling.

Wayne nodded, chuckling. "Well, I'm going to go see if she's doing any better," he said. "She was looking a little peaky last time I saw her. Hopefully she's doing much better now that Gordon's taking care of her."

"Officer Gordon is taking care of the girl?" asked Alfred, interested.

Wayne looked up at him, and a grin came to his face. "In the cleanest way possible, Alfred," he said.

Alfred looked surprised for a moment, then a slightly sheepish smile came to his face. "I wasn't thinking otherwise, Sir," he assured Wayne. "Truly."

Wayne chuckled again, smoothing out the front of his suit. "Well, I'm heading out," he told Alfred, walking past him and starting down the stairwell. Alfred followed, making sure to take note of everything Wayne said. "The nurse from Gotham General will be coming a little later to check up on Jessica," Wayne told him.

"The young girl? What's her name… Quinzel?" Alfred asked.

"No," Wayne said, frowning slightly as they reached the bottom of the stairs and headed towards the front door. "I got a call saying Harleen never showed up for work today. They'll be sending over a different nurse." He looked back at Alfred. "Whenever someone doesn't show up to work, it's always worrisome," he said.

Alfred smiled reassuringly at him. "I'm sure she's just sick, Sir," he said.

"A nurse?" Wayne asked.

Alfred shrugged. "It's been known to happen," he said.

Wayne nodded, looking away. When they reached the front door, Alfred opened the door for him, letting him out. "When should we be expecting you back, Sir?" he asked. "So I know when to make lunch."

"Uh, I shouldn't be more than a few hours," Wayne said, checking his Rolex. He waved to Alfred, getting into his Lamborghini, and then, starting the car, left the driveway of Wayne Manor and disappeared up the road.

. . .

Maria sighed and rested her head on the table as she waited for the GCPD to connect her call.

She shut her eyes and tried to ignore the incessant beeping of the kitchen microwave; her lunch of Spaghettios with franks was finished reheating. She felt almost hungover; after her little talk with Aidan last night, she had gotten back to the hotel depressed. More than anything, she wished she still had Max. She could use a little comfort right now.

Instead, she sat up and rapped her knuckles on the glass coffee table with a look around the room. The room the police had provided for her was nice. Not very homey, but it had a sort of elegance about it. She had a kitchen that blended into a sort of living room with a few chairs and a television. Down a short hallway was her bedroom, with a bathroom attached. The only thing that really mattered to her - her laptop - sat on the table in front of her. A document entitled "Napier" was pulled up; she scanned through it with a dark frown.

If everything worked well today, Gordon would be able to direct her to where they were keeping Jack Napier. And then she and him could have a bit of a chat.

. . .

Shawn put one hand to his head nervously and took a seat at his desk.

He could do this.

He could do this.

...He couldn't do this.

He shot back up from his chair.

He paced back and forth across his apartment floor, checking the clock every few steps. He had waited until nearly nine-thirty in the morning to call after getting up two hours earlier. By now, he'd bitten his nails to the quick and run his fingers nervously through his hair enough times to constitute another shower. Several times, Mayor Garcia had looked up from inside his own office and given Shawn an odd look. He hadn't given his assistant much work to do today, so he wasn't bothered by the fact that Shawn was obviously distracted, but he obviously couldn't figure out what he was so nervous about.

Shawn shook his head in despair. "Darn it." He finally grabbed the phone, dialed the number written on the sticky note on his computer and took several deep breaths.

He could do this.

The line rang once, twice, three times, and he started to lose his nerve. Maybe he should just call back later, when Dent got home...Shawn paled at the idea. An answering machine would be easier. So he waited until the message came up. There was a beep.

He couldn't do this.

"Um...hi," he began, his voice cracking a little. He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders, taking a seat again. "It's...ahm...it's Shawn Palmer. You know...from the police station." Oops. Maybe it wasn't best to remind him of that..."So, anyways, I figured I'd just call your work number, since I didn't really know your home number and all, and that'd be rude, you know..." (get to the point, Palmer!) "...so..."

He took another deep breath. "I figured we could meet at The Ocelot at around six-thirty. I got a reservation and everything. Um..." He scratched the back of his neck. "Yeah. So give me a call back or something." With that, he slammed the phone back into its cradle and collapsed in on himself.

That was horrible. He buried his face in his hands and took a deep breath. Suddenly, a curious voice asked, "Palmer?"

He immediately looked up to find Garcia poking his head out of his office. "Yes, sir?"

"Did you just set up a...date?" Garcia asked. "Not that it's my business, but..."

"OH." Shawn grinned awkwardly and nodded a bit. Garcia grinned back and gave him a thumbs-up, then went back into his office. It was a well-known fact around the mayor's office that Shawn was completely and utterly socially awkward. He was sure this little story would spread like wildfire. For some reason, though, he didn't really care. Instead, he pulled open a file cabinet and started copying names onto his computer in a haze of happiness.

This was a good week.

. . .

Harvey Dent sighed as he entered his office. It sure felt good to be out of prison. He set down his briefcase and stood before the large window, looking out at the city as he stretched his arms with a contented yawn, more for show than anything. Then a flashing light got his attention, and he turned to see that his phone was flashing. One new message, it said. He frowned slightly, picking up the phone and dialling the message box. He chuckled when he heard Shawn's message.

"The Ocelot?" he said, hanging up and dialling Shawn's number. "Poor boy. He needs to get out more often." He waited as Shawn's phone rang - he was probably away from his desk - and was not surprised when the answering machine picked up. "Shawn," he said, in his friendliest, most assuring voice, "The Ocelot sounds nice, but I was thinking something a little more… _posh._ Meet me at the Iceberg Lounge at six-thirty tonight. I'll be paying." And with that, he hung up.

Dent checked his watch, then looked back out the window. There was still plenty of day left before the date. He wondered if he should feel guilty about it, going behind Rachel's back, but then decided that he had not done anything inexplicably rash, after all. It was not as if it were going to come back and bite him later on in life. He chuckled, sitting on the edge of his desk and staring out the large window, folding his arms. "Oh, Harvey," he said, grinning. "You fox."

Then he looked back at the phone, and a slight crease formed in his forehead. "I should probably call to make reservations," he said. He turned around, pulling open one of his drawers and taking out his thick number directory, then opening it and scanning until he came to the C's. "Cobblepot…" he murmured, looking for the number. Finally, he found it on the page, and, tapping it with one finger, he grinned, picked up the phone, and dialled.

Dent waited a moment, until the man on the other end of the line picked up. "Hey, Os," he said, "it's Harvey. Listen, I need to ask a favour of you…"

. . .

"Harvey," Oswald Cobblepot drawled, his British accent heavy and sensual, turning on his barstool with a slippery grin. "Luv. Anything for you. How may I serve you?"

Oswald Cobblepot was a slightly stocky man, just under five-foot-eight, with faded blonde hair that seemed always styled just right with copious amounts of gel. His blue eyes were intelligent, and his thin mouth was always curved up into a knowing smirk. He always dressed in the most swanky of couture, black Armani suits, completing them with a black bowtie that never seemed to look silly on him.

Cobblepot took a drag on his cigarette, listening to Dent's request, and then blew out the smoke slowly. "On a date, are we, Harvey?" he asked. He watched the cigarette smoulder as he listened to Harvey's answer. "Oh, my," he said, grinning. "You've never accepted any of _my_ offers, and yet you cave to this little mayor's assistant?"

He took another drag of his cigarette. "Ah, I see," he said. "Well, does he have a big willie?" He paused, listening to Harvey's answer, then chuckled. "Oh, only general interest, luv. Nothing you should worry your pretty head about," he answered, taking another deep inhale of the cigarette. He looked down at his cigarette, exhaling blue smoke, then held it up. "Maggie," he called, "my fag is halfway down. Light me another?"

Cobblepot turned his attention back to the phone. "But anyways, darling," he said, as Maggie took his half-done cigarette from his hand and supplied him with a freshly-lit one, "I'll be sure to rope off a little table for you and your date, and get you the absolute best service." He grinned, putting the cigarette to his lips and taking a drag. "Oh, no, luv," he said, exhaling smoke, "thank _you,_ for continuing to keep me out of prison. I wouldn't be here without you." He chuckled. "All right, then," he said, "I'll talk to you later, then."

He hung up the phone, then took another drag of his cigarette. He looked up at Maggie then, letting the smoke seep through his lips. "Maggie, doll," he said, "how long has it been since you and I had a good lay?"

Maggie paused, considering his question, then shrugged. "A couple days," she said.

Cobblepot frowned, inhaling on his cigarette. "Bollocks," he answered, exhaling the smoke in a huff. "That will never do."

"You've been distracted, Os," Maggie said with a sigh. "Had that big arms deal a couple days back…"

"Well, that's no excuse, Maggie," he said. "You should've said something. Now you've simply got to spank me, for being such a bad boy."

Maggie frowned slightly, a bit confused. "Right… now?" she asked.

Cobblepot stared at her, letting the cigarette smoke in his hand. "If you want," he answered candidly. Then he grinned. "Though I think it might be a little distracting to my patrons," he added. He looked around at the sparse dotting of people who were inhabiting the lounge at that early hour of the morning. Then he looked at Maggie.

"The back room, then?" he suggested, taking a drag of the cigarette.

. . .

Oh, lunch breaks were a real _bitch_.

Shawn had sprinted back into his office when he heard Harvey's voice on his answering machine, but by the time he reached the phone, it was too late. He collapsed into his revolving chair with a sigh and spun to face the expanse of Gotham visible through his glass wall. That was just his luck. He was allowed an hour lunch break, and he'd taken it early so that he could be back in time to intercept any calls from Harvey, and this happened.

Then his thoughts turned to the message. The Iceberg Lounge? Shawn faintly remembered hearing something about the place, but he had no idea where it was. He watched the slowly-moving traffic creep up the street below, then sighed and stood up. Hopefully Garcia was still in a good mood.

"The Iceberg Lounge? Oh, sure," he said a minute later, spinning around in his chair to face Shawn. "It's maybe a block down from where that hotel burned down a few days ago. You know, the..."

"The Radisson, right," Shawn finished for him. Most of his job was to know what was going on in the city. That fire had been a big deal; lots of big players stayed at the Radisson. "Thank you, sir." He backed out of his boss' office with a nod and returned to his desk. He sat and pulled up a map of the city. Sure enough, there was a little building on a corner near the hotel site labeled "Iceberg Lounge". He sat back and stared at it.

Posh, Harvey had said. Shawn's blood pressure cranked up another few notches, and he reached to the drawer right under his keyboard to pull out a sucker. He stuck it in his mouth and rubbed his forehead. What the heck was he supposed to _wear_? And _act like_, and _say_, and...His nerves were close to snapping. Going with the flow wasn't easy for a kid who'd been raised to be perfect, but it seemed he'd have to try to take it easy tonight. He left Harvey another brief voicemail to say that was fine, and laid his head down on his desk, sucking on his lollipop.

God, a bubble bath sounded so nice right now.

. . .

Rachel Dawes parked her car in the front parking-lot of Gotham General and got out, closing her door and making sure to lock it. She did not want a repeat of the Joker incident. After checking twice that the door was securely locked, she started in to the building. As soon as she got inside, she was greeted with a friendly smile by the receptionist, a kindly-looking elderly lady.

"Welcome to Gotham General," the receptionist said.

"Thank you," Rachel said, leaning on the counter and putting her keys back into her purse. She paused a moment, then looked at the receptionist. "I'm here to see Jessica Fox," she said, deciding it would be best to be outright, rather than beating around the bush. "I heard she was being kept here after a shooting incident."

"Oh, that's right," said the receptionist. "She does seem rather _popular,_ Jessica. She's a nice girl, though, so it's not surprising she'd have so many friends."

"Hm," Rachel said, nodding. "I was actually here to ask her if she wanted to press legal charges against her attacker." She took a breath, then added, "Granting we can catch him."

"Oh!" said the receptionist, seeming fascinated. "Are you a lawyer? You seem so young! You must be an overachiever."

"I don't know about _that,_" said Rachel with a polite smile. "But yes, I am a lawyer." She glanced behind her, then looked back at the receptionist. "May I… see Miss Fox, please?" she asked.

The receptionist opened her mouth to answer, when suddenly the phone next to her on the desk began to ring. She looked slightly flustered for a moment, then picked up the phone. "Hello?" she asked. She paused, then answered, "No, she's not here anymore. She's being kept in hospice at Wayne Manor. Mm-hmm. All right. No problem."

She hung up the phone and turned back to Rachel. "What are the odds?" she asked with a friendly smile. "But anyways, Mister Wayne was kind enough to let Miss Fox stay in hospice at Wayne Manor. She's been doing quite well there, under the care of one of our understudy nurses… Nurse Quinzel." The receptionist sighed a bit, glancing over her shoulder. "Though she never showed up for work today, so one of our other resident nurses is going over to Wayne Manor to take care of her."

The receptionist smiled at her, friendly. "Is there anything else I can help you with?" she asked.

Rachel shook her head. "No, thank you," she said with a polite smile. "I'll just… call Bruce and see if I can come over to talk to Jessica sometime." She nodded to the receptionist, then turned and walked out of the hospital without a second thought.

. . .

At seven-thirty sharp, Jeanette rolled right off of her couch, hit the ground with a muffled thud, and started into her pushups.

Her abs were burning when she finished and flipped back to her feet. Not a good sign; those few days without exercise had thrown her off. She sighed and glanced toward the bedroom. Unless Kitty was a completely hopeless case, she could fend for herself for the morning. Jeanette had an errand to run.

She locked the door behind her and walked to an ATM machine before she did anything else; she'd left her purse, and the rest of her personal things, back at the hotel. After withdrawing a decent amount, she hailed a cab and directed him to the Radisson on Fourth. She noticed when the driver turned and gave her an odd look before heading off. With a scoff, she looked out the window. He probably didn't get many higher-end customers, or something.

Moments later, her misconception was corrected.

She stared in horror at the mound of rubble being slowly cleared away by bulldozers. It was gone. The goddamn hotel, with _every goddamn thing_ she had owned, was gone. Her clothing, her laptop, her cell phone, her _guns_...She groaned in agony at the thought of her newly-purchased sniper rifle being blown into little bits. She whipped around to the startled taxi driver, who she'd requested wait, and pointed back at the mess. He seemed to get the message.

"Some nut blew the place up a few nights ago," he said with a shrug. She nodded. She had a pretty good idea of who that "some nut" was. And, when she was done with him, that "some nut" probably wouldn't have any nuts left. She flexed her fists. He'd blown up her goddamn _guns..._

Her next stop was a shopping center; it took her half an hour to completely restock her wardrobe. She picked up a new cell phone and a laptop. One last stop at the bank, to replenish her dwindling wallet, and she went back to the apartment.

Kitty still wasn't up. Maybe that was a good thing, Jeanette figured as she grabbed the phone sitting on the counter. The woman wouldn't have to know what she was up to. She dialed quickly, fingers skipping across the numbers that she knew by heart, and waited for the other end to ring. It went straight to voice mail; she frowned. "Hey, Os, hope you're not screwing around in the storage room. If you are, cut it out and go to the bar; I'll be there in five." She dropped the phone back into its cradle; there was no need for an introduction. This particular lowlife would know her voice, or she'd know why.

Jeanette spared a last glance at the closed bedroom door as she donned one of her new outfits, a black silk shirt and similarly-colored jeans and flats. Hopefully, this trip wouldn't take long, and she'd be back in time to get Kitty some lunch. Just in case, Jeanette scribbled something about being out for the morning, and left a few twenties next to the note along with her new cell number. Then she put on her newly-purchased jacket, swept a brush through her loose hair a few times to tame it, and headed out.

She barged straight into the Iceburg Lounge and headed over to the bar, where her favorite arms dealer was lounging and smoking. Go figure, she thought with an eye roll. She took a seat next to him and took the cigarette right out of his mouth. "Long time, no see, Os," she said, sticking the smoke into the corner of her mouth. "Get me a scotch, will you?"

Cobblepot was slightly surprised when someone stole the cigarette out of his mouth, but the slick grin returned to his face when he saw who it was. "Jeanette," he said. "My favourite person in the whole wide world. Besides myself, of course." He indicated towards Maggie. "Maggie, doll, get me a new fag, if you will." Then he turned to the large, silent black man behind the bar, who was meditatively cleaning a glass. "Get the lady a drink, Tally, if you will," he said. "Scotch, please. The best we've got. It's on the house."

Tally nodded slowly, his dark eyes locked on Cobblepot, then turned his eyes on Jeanette, stared at her for a moment, and then got to work on her scotch. Cobblepot turned back to Jeanette as Maggie came up with the new cigarette. "Thank you, Maggie," he said, taking the cigarette and taking a drag of it. "So, my dear," he said to Jeanette as Tally placed her glass on the counter by her, "what brings you here this fine day? Aren't you usually busy gallivanting about at this time of day, shooting some poor nobody for sport?"

He took the cigarette from his mouth and let the smoke seep through his lips. "Or," he said, indicating her with the cigarette, "is that just it?" He grinned knowingly at her as he returned the fag to his mouth. "Oh, I know _all,_ my dear," he told her. "That little upscale hotel up the road didn't just spontaneously combust. And I'm willing to bet you all the jewellery I bought for my Magpie yesterday that you were keeping your toys there."

At this, Maggie looked up in shock. "What?" she asked, sounding slightly frantic.

"Oh, don't worry, darling, I'm not a stupid better," he assured her. "You'll get your shiny things, don't worry your pretty head." He turned back to Jeanette. "She's got a soft spot for things that glitter," he told her. Then he chuckled. "Don't we all?" he asked, returning the cigarette to his mouth. He took a long drag, then blew out a line of smoke, thinking. "So, Jeanette, my darling girl," he said, turning back to her. "What kind of pretty new toys were you in the market for today?"

Before she could answer, he lifted a finger, smiling at her. "Wait," he said. "I believe I have just the thing. I special-ordered it, just for you." He got up off his bar stool and indicated for her to follow. "I saw it, and instantly I thought of you," he said, leading her into his back room. "Top of the line, the absolute newest and best model of this gun available…" He pulled up a slim silver case and, with a flair, clicked open the clasps and pushed the lid up, revealing the gun to Jeanette.

He stepped back, watching her expression with a knowing grin. "So," he said, taking a thoughtful drag of his cigarette. "You like?"

"Safe bet, Os," she told him with a scowl. "Some stupid bastard blew up it all up...everything." She blew out a pained sigh and ground the cigarette butt into an ashtray, and held her hands out. "_Sticazzi?_ Who cares? I lose my old stuff, I just come back to you." She patted his shoulder in a detached-but-friendly way.

She followed him out to the back room curiously, then proceeded to ignore the his question, setting the glass of scotch she'd carried with her from the other room down on the table to more easily inspect the gun.

She stepped back with raised eyebrows. "What the hell _is_ it?" she asked Cobblepot, finally turning to look at him. "No chance in hell it's a typical military-issue, with that sort of weight. And it's too long for law enforcement. In fact, it almost looks like a hybr...Oh, Os." A slow grin spread across her face, and she looked back at the gun. "Oh, _Os._"

She'd heard only rumors about the new hybrid rifles; they were the latest, best thing you could get, but only on the black market. A mixture between military and law guns, they had all the speed, accuracy, and lightweight of both.

But they were also expensive. She sighed and asked the inevitable. "How much?"

Cobblepot indicated the gun. "This," he said, "is the SR-101. It's very high quality, and therefore usually very expensive. I brought this baby all the way back from Germany. That's the only place they make them." He grinned, taking another inhale of the cigarette. "Made by the very dependable ERMA," he said. "One of their not-yet-released models. Well… not yet released but to those of us who know who to ask."

He gave her a wink. "The latest model released on the market was for distribution to government buyers only, and it was the SR-100. So you can imagine how many strings I had to pull to get this. But…" He smiled at her. "I just _had_ to get it for you, because I know how much you like your toys."

Then he took a step back, putting one hand in his pocket. "Oh," he said with a slight chuckle, taking a drag of his cigarette. "It's _pennies_ for you, my dear, I'm sure. _Pocket change._" He exhaled the smoke, staring at the gun, thinking then said airily, "Ah, _six thousand_ sounds like a fair estimate." He looked up at her then. "That is _nothing,_ my dear, compared to what I had to go through to get it for you," he assured her. "Really, you should be _thanking_ me for such a remarkably low price. I mean, I must be _crazy_ to be offering it to you at that low of a price. Check me please, make sure I haven't escaped from Arkham."

He chuckled, taking another drag of the cigarette. "But really," he said, blowing out the smoke, "you know I would never overcharge you for something like this. Your business means too much to me, my dear." He shrugged then, looking up at her. "I mean, after all, I _did_ get it special for you… and I _know_ you can't resist something as nice as this."

He grinned at her. Then he moved forward, taking the gun gingerly from her hands and putting it back in its case. "But, if it's above your interest range…" He started to slowly close the case. "I'll just take it back to Germany…"

Jeanette stopped his hand with her own, lifting the lid of the case back open.

"Honestly, Os, I'm going to start thinking you don't respect me," she said flippantly, still eyeing the gun. It was worth every cent, even if he was ripping her off. Which he most certainly was. That was one disadvantage of flaunting your wealth. She sighed. "Cash or check?" It was the standard question, with a standard answer. What arms dealer in his right mind would take a check? She pulled out her wallet and started counting the bills.

That reminded her of something. She paused and put the money away for a moment, reaching into her pocket. Her hand emerged holding Crane's handgun. She held it out for Cobblepot to inspect. "Any interest in taking this off my hands?" she asked only halfheartedly. She probably would end up selling it to some gangster on the streets; even the least proud arms dealer wouldn't be interested in it.

The sight of the gun made her feel like she was forgetting something. _Oh, right..._ She decided to go out on a limb. "Hey, speaking of crazies..." She glanced up, trying to be nonchalant. "You heard anything about this Joker guy that's been on the news for a while?"

"Me? Disrespect you?" He put a hand over his heart. "I'm hurt, darling. You cut deep." He chuckled then, stuffing his hand back in his pocket and putting the cigarette into his mouth. "Cash, luv," he said. "Like always. Wouldn't want to break tradition, would we?"

He held out a hand for the money, but was surprised when she instead dropped a handgun into his outstretched palm. He frowned, inspecting the little weapon with disdain. "It's not much, my dear," he told her candidly. "It looks like someone bought it from a pawn shop to intimidate others. It's really… quite _primitive._"

He shrugged, turning it over in his hands, then pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and started to clean the little weapon. "I can offer you a pittance for it, luv," he told her, looking at it again. "It's really not my thing… I've never been fond of handheld weapons. Too… unpredictable. Too easily stolen." He looked back up at her. "I'll do you a favour," he said, pocketing the handgun. "Go ahead and knock twenty off the price of your new toy, there."

He looked up at her in interest when she mentioned the Joker. "The Joker?" he asked, tapping the ashes from the end of his cigarette onto the floor. "The so-called _Jester of Crime?_" He chuckled, returning the fag to his lips. "Oh, I wouldn't know about him, my dear. I'm not quite _that_ shady. I don't deal with men who wear _makeup._" He paused, then an amused look crossed his face. "Or I haven't," he added, mostly to himself, "not since nineteen-seventy-four… Oh, those were the days."

He looked back up at her then, smiling. "But truly, dearest," he said, "I haven't done any dealings with the Joker. Personally, I'm terrified of the man. I'm afraid if I tried to sell him anything, he'd hack me to pieces and leave me in some back alley." He frowned at her then. "Now, why would an intelligent girl like yourself be thinking about a dogsbody like him?" he asked, taking another drag on the cigarette.

Cobblepot shook his head then, exhaling smoke. "He's not worth worrying your pretty head over," he assured her. "He's just another hack, and he'll soon be caught and forgotten." He indicated back towards the main room of the lounge. "We'd best resurface," he said with a smile. "Or else Maggie will start getting jealous… or even _worried,_ God forbid."

"Go figure," she muttered regarding the handgun, digging once again for her wallet. Trust Crane to find some shady dealer who lacked an eye for fine weaponry. She felt a need to explain herself, as if she'd handled something dirty. Plus, she couldn't resist a little name dropping. Os was a horrible influence. "Got that from a short-time acquaintance. Maybe you've heard the name..." She grinned and began counting the bills into his outstretched hand. "Jonathan Crane? Think he was on the news a while back..."

She stuffed her wallet back into her purse and slung it over her shoulder with a nod. "Too bad," she informed him sadly. "I don't know, I've been feeling a bit...edgy lately." The corner of her mouth twisted up in a smirk. "Though, from what I've heard, the poor bloke's been spending most of his time in the gutter. Completely useless." She flipped her hair over her shoulder and took Cobblepot's advice, still speaking as she went in.

"So how have things with Maggie been?" she asked, keeping a pleasant smile on her face as she inspected the front room. It was your typical upper-crust hangout, though it had a sharper edge to it than most; this early in the day, with the lights not quite so dim, it was easier to see that the Iceberg Lounge wasn't quite as pristine as it was made out to be. Some of the customers looked downright shady. It was obvious that not everyone was here for the food and drinks. Frankly, she was shocked that Cobblepot's little side dealings hadn't been found out yet. Maybe he was paying somebody up on top to keep the police's mouths shut.

Cobblepot looked back at her, watching as she pulled the bills from her wallet, and held out his hands for the money. "A gutter? Oh, dear," he said, flicking ashes off of his cigarette. "That can't be good for his clothes. Or his health. Or… oh, dear, he must have _terrible_ split ends." He paid rapt attention as she put the bills into his palm, and instantly withdrew his hand.

"Jonathan Crane?" asked Oswald, stuffing the bills into his breast pocket without counting them. He trusted Jeanette to be a woman of her word; he had done enough business with her that they were almost friends. Then again, almost was the operative word. He would have to count the bills sometime later, when she was not watching him. "I've heard of him. Used to run Arkham, yes?" He shuddered slightly. "Oh, dreadful place," he said. "They make the inmates wear bright orange jumpsuits. _Bright orange,_ my dear! The nerve. Those haven't been in style since… Flashdance."

Cobblepot pushed aside the curtain, leading them back into the lounge, itself. "But I've certainly heard of the man. Stunning blue eyes. Never done business with him, myself, though." He shrugged, frowning down at the dwindling cherry of his cigarette. "Oh, bother," he said. "Maggie?" He held up the cigarette, and almost instantly Maggie came by, took it from him, and replaced it with a freshly-lit one.

Oswald took a long, satisfied drag of it, then turned back to Jeanette with a smile. "Maggie and I are doing quite nicely," he replied. "I keep her satisfied with shiny things, and she keeps me… er, _lit up,_ so to speak." He chuckled, returning the cigarette to his lips. "But you couldn't really care less about that," he said, taking the fag from his mouth and letting the smoke seep out.

He thought for a moment, then turned to her, grinning slyly. "I bet," he said, indicating her with the cigarette, "I could get that Joker of yours to come 'round here. In fact…" He pulled a pocket watch out of his jacket pocket and checked it, then stuffed it back in his pocket. "Be here around eight o' clock sharp this evening, and I can almost _assure_ you that you'll find your Joker here." He grinned, winking at her, then turned away from her and started back towards the bar.

"Tally," he called to the bartender. "Get me some scotch, on the rocks."

Jeanette considerately held in her laughter at his comments on fashion. God only knew why a guy so utterly fascinated with the high life, and all of its quirks and glamor, would begin an arms dealing business.

On second thought, why not? It was a good cover. She smiled Who knew? Maybe Bruce Wayne was good pals with the Batman, and secretly punched out baddies on the streets at night. The thought made her snicker.

The laugh died away quickly, though, at Cobblepot's deal. She raised her eyebrows and shrugged. Usually, she would dismiss his claim at being able to summon up Napier just like that as complete idiocy. But with Cobblepot, you never knew. And she was just desperate enough to see if his claims were hot air, or made of more substantial stuff. "Suppose I'll see you at eight, then," she told him, leaning forward and politely air-kissing both of his cheeks. She did the same gesture to Maggie (something about those two really brought back her Italian roots), then left with the gun case swinging at her side.


	32. Chapter ThirtyOne

The minute Jeanette got back to the apartment, she stored the case beneath the couch then went and rapped on Kitty's door. "I found a lead," she called triumphantly, cracking the door open. "Time to get up. You want some lunch? You could borrow some of my clothes, if you want."

Kitty had been sitting on the edge of her bed for a little over an hour when she heard Jeanette's voice. She had not even bothered to get out of the bedroom, and had not found her note, but somehow she had known that Jeanette was not at home. She paused a moment, then glanced behind her to see if Jeanette had woken up Jeannie Rose. Thankfully, the little girl was still sleeping soundly, so Kitty got to her feet, crossed to the door of the bedroom, and let herself out.

"A lead?" she asked in interest, closing the door behind her. A lead always had the connotation of being good, but so long as the 'lead' they were following would set them up to meet up with the elusive and not-quite-admirable Jack Napier, no one ever knew for sure. Kitty, especially, was not convinced that Jeanette finding a lead was such a good thing, after all. But she kept a straight, emotionless face as she stepped out into the house, rubbing her eyes sleepily.

"I don't think your clothes will fit me," she said, smoothing out the front of her dress. She looked up at Jeanette, and then down at herself. "You're taller than I am," she said. "And… thinner." Not by much, but Kitty was very self-conscious, and had never, as long as she could remember, been especially happy with the way she looked.

Then again, there was not much to work with; Kitty was undeniably plain, as far as women went, in her opinion. Nothing about her mousy, straight brown hair or dull blue eyes made her seem any more attractive, whenever she looked in the mirror. She had never bothered trying to fool with either of them, as long as she could remember, because she was convinced that no teasing or makeup could possibly make her any less plain.

"Lunch sounds good," she said, looking back up at Jeanette. "Though it'd have to be something light… I'm feeling a little bit nauseous." She folded her arms, hunching her shoulders slightly. "Not much, though… no need to worry about me." She sighed, glancing over her shoulder. "Jeannie Rose will probably be hungry, too, when she wakes up," she said. Then she looked up at Jeanette. "Exactly what kind of lead did you find?" she asked.

"I went to see a...ah...friend of mine this morning," Jeanette replied, distracted but still careful to skim over the details. She was searching through the bags of clothing she'd purchased that morning, looking for something that might fit Kitty. Contrary to what the younger woman said, she wasn't _that_ much shorter or bigger than Jeanette. Besides, that dress had to go. She'd probably been wearing it for days. "He gave me a few interesting tidbits of information. To make a long story short, have you heard of the Iceberg Lounge? Because that's where we're going for dinner."

She finally straightened up with an exasperated sigh. Nothing she'd bought would look good on Kitty; black just wasn't her color. They'd have to go out and get her an outfit for that night. Not only would she be meeting her old husband, but she wouldn't be able to get into the Lounge wearing a day dress.

"You want some Advil?" she asked, kicking one of the shopping bags. The stomachache was probably nerves. Why else would Kitty feel sick, and this early in the morning...?

Jeanette froze and looked at the woman with widened eyes for almost a full minute. Then she shook her head. No. No way. Not possible. "So...ah...lunch." She struggled for a bit of normality to get rid of that weird thought. "There's a cafe down the street that actually has some good salads..." she chattered, glancing out the window. "Whatever you feel up for."

Kitty listened, then hesitated. "I've… never heard of it," she admitted. "It sounds… expensive." She bit her lip; that was probably an insulting thing to say. She watched as Jeanette rifled through the bags of clothing, wondering what she was doing. Probably looking for something to wear, she decided. Women with money liked to change clothes regularly, often more than once a day. Kitty had never understood the habit, but, then again, she had always been accustomed to a more… limited, lifestyle.

Then she nodded. "Advil sounds good," she said quietly. "It might help." She looked at the ground at this. It would help temporarily, but the nausea was sure to come back. Something like that did not just go away with a dose of medicine. She would not say anything about it in the future, though, she decided. She did not want Jeanette to start getting any ideas… especially when the ideas she got might be true. She did not meet Jeanette's gaze when the woman stared at her, and was relieved when she went back to talking.

Kitty looked up, staring at the bag of clothes. "Salad… sounds good," she said quietly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. She looked up at Jeanette then, offering her a sad smile. "I am a _little_ hungry," she said, hoping to lift the awkwardness of the discussion of her nausea. "Maybe… we could get a bite. If you… don't mind."

She looked back down at her feet. "I'm afraid… I don't have any money," she admitted. "I… lost everything when… _he _destroyed my house." She looked away, then. She seemed unable to say his name. "…Crane," she said softly.

Jeanette replied, with a laugh, "Expensive?" Then she mulled the word over for a moment. Finally, she nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah. Guess it is."

She went over to her purse and dug a small container of Advil out, tossing it thoughtlessly to Kitty. She didn't think for a moment that the woman would drop it. Then she turned back to her purse, pulling out her wallet. "I've got it covered," she assured Kitty with a slight, pitying shake of her head. As if Jeanette would actually leave the woman to fend for herself. Ridiculous. "Don't worry. It's not a problem at all."

With a laugh, she suddenly realized that Kitty didn't know anything about her. In fact, the woman probably still thought she was an innocent jogger who'd been caught at the wrong place, at the wrong time. Which, in retrospect, wasn't _too_ far from the truth, if you excluded the part where she'd teamed up with Gotham's criminal extraordinaire and was now plotting the slowest, most painful way to kill Crane.

There was nothing she could (or really wanted to) do about that naive idea at the moment, though, so she discarded the thought and took her house guest out to lunch.

The salad was as good as Jeanette had predicted. And, along with the Advil, it did a bit to settle Kitty's stomach. She was in a much more talkative mood when Jeanette called a cab to drive them to a nearby mall. They chatted about all sorts of things: recent politics (including the oh-so-interesting Harvey Dent), celebrity gossip, dream vacation spots. The only topic that Jeanette purposefully steered them away from was criminal activity in Gotham.

For obvious reasons.

It was weird, Jeanette reflected as she pulled her hair back into a quick ponytail so that she could more easily dig into the clothing racks. This almost felt like those brief times at home when she'd played with her cousins. Kitty was easy to talk to, understanding, and a very apt listener. Something about it bothered her. Maybe it was the fact that she was about to stick this innocent woman into a situation for which she was neither prepared nor eager without asking her about it. The feeling of guilt was too much; Jeanette shoved it away. In her business, it wasn't good to feel guilty. And attachment was definitely out, she reminded herself, as she watched Kitty bustle around and pull out conservative skirts and blouses.

As they'd finally settled on a dozen or two outfits for Kitty, including a nice dress for that night, she sighed. It sure seemed like Kitty was starting to trust her more. The question was exactly how much. She decided to test it. As she picked through a shoe rack, and asked in an offhanded way, "So what do you think about meeting Jack Napier?"

Kitty looked up in surprise at the question. She had not been expecting Jeanette to be quite so forward with her, but, she supposed, Kitty had been so chatty and upbeat for the past bit that she supposed the woman thought they were friends. Kitty had never really had many friends, that she could remember, and so the concept was a bit startling. But, regaining her composure, she looked back at the clothing Jeanette had gotten for her, and, taking a breath, admitted, "I, um… I hadn't really thought about it."

She looked back up at Jeanette, some of the original dullness of before returning to her eyes, and bit her lip. The question was really making her think, something she had not had to do much of that day, and so it was a severe cut back to reality. "I guess…" She paused, unsure of what to say. "I guess it didn't really hit me before that… that was what we were doing." She looked back at the clothes, fingering some of the fabric gently. "I mean…" She hesitated again. "I mean, I must have known, but… the _starkness_ of it didn't really hit me before…" Her eyes returned to Jeanette's face. "Before now."

She sighed, smoothing the front of the dress she had been wearing for days on end, thinking. "It's like, I want to meet him… I do, but…" She looked up at Jeanette again. "I just don't know if he would want to meet me. - I mean," she was getting talkative again, "I can't imagine he'd be adverse to seeing me, if I really am his wife, but what if…" She looked away again. "What if I'm not what he remembers?" she asked. "What if… I'm a disappointment to him? If… he expects something…" She paused. "…_More?_"

She looked down at the clothes Jeanette had bought for her, running her fingers over the fabric. "What if he's made a name for himself, and I'm just… me?" She shrugged. "If he's, maybe, famous or infamous, and I'm just…" She looked up at Jeanette. "Plain?" she finished. "What if… what if he doesn't want to be seen with me? I mean… what if he doesn't even remember me? O-or… he doesn't remember Jeannie Rose?" She bit her lip. "What if he doesn't know about Jeannie Rose?" she asked. "What if… what if…"

She took a deep breath, looking away again, and put a hand to her head. "I'm just getting all worked up over nothing," she said quietly. "It's nothing big, it's just like… seeing an old acquaintance you haven't seen in a few years. Like a… reunion." She looked back up at Jeanette, paused, and then smiled faintly. "My nerves are just in overdrive," she said. "It… happens." She paused, the smile fading from her face. "It… happens sometimes." she repeated quietly, looking away again.

She paused, silent, for a long moment, then looked back over at Jeanette. "What time is it?" she asked. "We should probably be getting back to the apartment… don't you think?"

"Don't do that."

Jeanette dropped the rest of the clothing carelessly onto a nearby rack. The store workers would just have to clean them up; it was their goddamn _job_, after all. "Don't trust me like that, don't..._confide_ in me." She scowled and looked away. "It's just...God, you don't know anything. Anything at all about...about all that." She groaned, and combed her fingers through her hair agitatedly.

Then she shook her head, as if dismissing what she'd said. "Never mind. You're right, we should go back." She turned on her heel and made her way towards the front of the shop, not bothering to see if Kitty was coming.

Why did it bother her so much? Kitty's trusting nature was going to be the death of her, that's why. She acted like a little kid, trusting anybody who came along with a nice word. Too goddamn _innocent_, that's what she was. And the world wasn't like that.

The thought gave Jeanette pause; it was only momentary. She wasn't _jealous_ of the woman. That was stupid. She couldn't afford any stupid thoughts, she reminded herself. There was still the "meeting" at the Lounge she had to handle.

Kitty looked up in surprise at being addressed so sharply. Her hands instantly went to the corners of her dress and she held tightly to the fabric, pulling the skirt taught across her knees in anxiety. She bit her lip, looking at the ground, like a child being scolded for misbehaving. "I-I'm sorry," she stuttered quietly, "I won't do it again. I didn't know it would… bother you so much."

Kitty closed her mouth, shutting herself up. Maybe Jeanette was annoyed with her for talking too much. She had not said anything before, when Kitty had been amiable and chatty with her, but now, now that they were breaching a rather touchy subject for the both of them, Jeanette seemed to be on edge. Kitty could understand why; perhaps it would be better if she were to just be quiet and take the day's occurrences as they played out.

"I _do_ trust you… though," she said then, looking up. "I mean… you helped me…" She looked down at her feet again, twisting one of the fistfuls of her dress. "You helped me get away from Crane… when I would never have had the courage to do it, myself," she said, more quietly. She paused a moment, taking deep, settling breaths. "…As much as I _could_ get away," she added, mostly to herself.

She looked up then. "You're right," she said, letting go of her dress. She folded her arms over one another as if she were cold, looking at Jeanette. "I don't know anything about… anything." She started to look away, but then looked back up at Jeanette. "But I do know how to judge character," she said, frowning slightly. "I'm not stupid. I can tell when someone is really a good person, deep down." She put a hand to her chest, as if indicating her own heart. "And I know _you_ are a good person. I can trust you, because… I know you would never do anything to hurt me."

She sighed, dropping her hands to her sides again. "I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head. "I just… talk too much sometimes." There was a pause, then she watched as Jeanette turned and walked away. She glanced back at the store one last time, then turned and followed Jeanette out the doors.

They had much more to do before the night was out.

Jeanette hailed a cab and crawled in, motioning for Kitty to follow, before frowning thunderously at the woman. "Oh, stop it," she said sharply, pausing only to tell the driver where they were headed before turning to face Kitty. "Enough of all that 'good person' nonsense. Want to know why I wouldn't hurt you?" She took a deep breath, hoping this honesty wouldn't cost her. "Because it doesn't _help me_. And I got you away from Crane because it _does_ help me. I'm not a 'good person'."

She turned to face the seat in front of her, and noticed that the driver was ignoring the wheel, staring instead between the two women. "Oh, just turn around _drive_," she told him. He obeyed immediately and clumsily screeched out into the rush hour traffic. Jeanette leaned her head against the seat. Maybe she'd have some Advil when they got back.

Kitty got into the cab after Jeanette, folding her hands in her lap and looking away, not wanting to make eye contact while she was being scolded. "I'm sorry…" she said quietly. "I didn't mean to offend you…" She looked down at her shoes, crossing her ankles over one another, and looked out the window. "I just… thought you'd like to know," she added, exhaling sadly.

Kitty had always prided herself on being a good judge of character, but now that she was actually trying to put that to good use, she always ended up being denied. Her innocence and timidity always seemed to push others away, or to cause them to push her away. Either way, Kitty had never been able to hold onto something solid, despite herself, and yet she always found herself clinging to others for protection. Perhaps it was something about having a young child, someone who needed that kind of protection, and Kitty having none that she could call her own.

It was a strange feeling, the feeling of complete and utter aloneness.

She leaned her forehead against the window and closed her eyes, sighing. With every passing minute, the imminent meet-up with Jack Napier seemed more and more daunting. But she had no one to share her concerns with, since Jeanette was uninterested in the feelings of someone as consummately unimportant as Kitty, and Jeannie Rose was too young to understand her mother's ailments.

She folded her arms across her stomach and silently stared out the window. Perhaps this Jack Napier would be able to make all of this insanity all better. It was a very slim hope, but, Kitty realized, it was the only one she had left.

She just hoped Jack Napier was not as crazy as the rest of them.

. . .

The doorbell rang at Wayne Manor, and Alfred answered the door. A nurse from Gotham General stood on the front stoop, wearing a facemask and nurse's cap and carrying a bag of medical supplies. Alfred smiled out at the visitor. "Oh," he said. "It is certainly good to see you, Miss." The nurse nodded graciously in response, and Alfred indicated for the nurse to come inside.

"Miss Fox has been doing quite nicely," he commented, closing the door behind his visitor. "I think she's making quite a remarkable recovery, if I do say so, Miss. Much thanks to the help of the good people at Gotham General." The nurse nodded, looking around. "Oh, uh, Master Wayne isn't in right now," Alfred said. "Let me take you to see Miss Fox."

The nurse nodded, turning and following Alfred through the house, taking in the grandeur of Wayne Manor with interested, dark eyes. Finally, Alfred indicated an open door, smiling politely at the nurse. "Miss Fox is right in there," he said. The nurse nodded again, looking towards the open door and fiddling slightly with a lock of blonde hair. Alfred nodded in response, the polite smile lingering on his face.

"Well," he said, "I will… leave you to your business." He inclined his head slightly to the nurse, then turned and walked away.

The nurse watched as he disappeared, then turned back to the room and went inside. Jessica's bed sat against the wall, and Jessica lay, peacefully looking out the window. A chair sat by the bed, perhaps usually occupied by her brother, but no one sat there now. The nurse came in and hesitated, staring at Jessica for a long moment, then went and sat in the chair next to Jessica's bed, setting the bag of medical supplies down on the floor.

Jessica looked away from the window, turning to look at the nurse sitting by her bed, and smiled amiably. "Hello," she said.

The nurse stared at her for a moment, then unhooked the facemask from around one ear and pulled the mask away. Jessica's smile instantly disappeared as she looked the nurse in the face.

"Hi," said the Joker.

Jessica's eyes widened as she stared at the man. "You-" she stuttered, unable to get out a sentence. "You-"

"Probably look awful in drag," the Joker cut her off. "But that's not the point." He took the nurse's hat from his head and shook out his hair. Jessica watched in horror as what had been a full head of blonde hair fell to the floor, then looked back up at the Joker, who was staring down at the hair on the floor, thoughtfully. "Hm," he said contemplatively. "I should probably donate that."

The Joker paused a moment, then looked back up at Jessica and leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and resting his chin in his palms, staring intently at her. "So," he said, wetting his lips and blinking slowly. "You're Jessica."

Jessica hesitated, then nodded slightly. "How did you find out?" she asked.

The Joker shrugged. "I have my sources," he said. He licked his lips again. "From what I understand, you know something important," he told her. He swallowed. "I would very much like to know what that is."

Jessica shook her head. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said, "I don't know anything that would be of interest to someone like you."

"Oh, now," said the Joker, leaning back in the chair and folding his arms. Jessica cringed, looking away.

"This isn't Scotland," she said.

The Joker hesitated, taken aback. "This is Sparta?" he asked.

Jessica shook her head, indicating towards his spread legs. The Joker paused a moment, then looked down at his lap, hesitated, and crossed his legs. Jessica glanced back, saw that he had done that, and turned back to look at him again. "Anyways," the Joker said, "what exactly is that supposed to mean, 'someone like you'? I'm not special. I like the same things as anyone else… mostly."

"Piña Colatas and getting caught in the rain?" Jessica asked, trying to get onto somewhat good terms with the man. She had worked with crazy people for long enough that she knew what tactics to try before she succumbed to desperation. This one was going to be especially tricky, because one wrong move could mean her death.

The Joker frowned, twisting his mouth to one side. "Tried that once," he said. "But then I got hammered and it started pouring… ended up being no fun at all."

Jessica could have kicked herself. But, she reasoned, at least she was still breathing. The Joker sighed, looking away from her, and picked up one of the pillows from the bed that she was not currently resting on. He held it in his lap, staring down at it, massaging the edges every so often, as if he were using it as a stress ball. A strange, thoughtful expression had crossed his face. He looked back up at Jessica. "You know something," he said, "and I'm determined to know it, too."

Jessica shook her head again. "I don't know anything," she assured him.

The Joker nodded, looking away, and then looked down at the pillow in his hands. "Right," he said. "Of course you don't." He paused a moment, staring thoughtfully at the ground. He looked back up at her, watching her for a long moment. Then, suddenly, he leapt to his feet and slammed the pillow over her face, pressing down on the sides, smothering her with it. "How about now?!" he demanded. "You know anything now?!"

Jessica scrambled frantically with him, trying to find his arms to pull him off of her. She struck his arms, but he did not relent to her. Finally, he lifted the pillow away from her face, and she stared at him, wide-eyed, terrified. "What do you know?" he asked, wetting his lips, holding the pillow at the ready.

"Crane," she stuttered. "Crane… broke an inmate out of Arkham. Charles Goodhart…"

"Goodhart. Sounds familiar," said the Joker thoughtfully, wetting his lips.

"He was admitted to Arkham a few years ago, for killing his wife," said Jessica, trying nervously to pull information quickly. "He has a daughter, Maria Goodhart."

"_That's_ where I know the name from." He grinned at her, squeezing the edges of the pillow. "Now… where is Crane?"

"I don't know!" Jessica exclaimed. "The last I saw Doctor Crane was when he tried to kill me."

The Joker paused, twisting his mouth to one side in a slight frown. "That wasn't very nice of him," he said.

Jessica nodded, staring at him. "No, it wasn't," she said.

The Joker nodded, too. "That wasn't very nice at all," he said. He looked at her then, and a wide grin split his face. "Botching the job like that. Leaves more work for _me._" And with that, he slammed the pillow over her face again, holding it down firmly. Jessica tried to scream, but her scream was muffled by the pillow as she frantically clawed at him, trying to get him off of her.

He chuckled at her attempts. "What's the matter, Jessica?" he asked. "Would you like to _talk_ about it?" He pressed the pillow harder against her face. Jessica grabbed hold of one of his wrists, trying frantically to pull his hands off of the pillow, but her attempt was fruitless. She tried hitting his arm with her fist, but her attempts began to grow weaker, until finally, with one last, feeble strike, her hands fell, limp, onto the bed, and she moved no more.

The Joker paused for a moment, then pulled the pillow away from her face, staring down at her. "Hm," he said thoughtfully, wetting his lips. He tossed the pillow aside and, with a sniff, he turned away from the body on the bed and let himself out of the room, and then out of the house.

Alfred looked up when he heard the front door closing. "Oh, dear," he said, "I didn't let our guest out… I hope she wasn't offended." He moved into the front room, and from there walked to the bedroom. He knocked quietly on the open door, then peeked inside. "Miss Fox," he said, "is there anything you would like me to get for…" He stared at Jessica, who was not moving. "Miss Fox?" he asked worriedly, moving into the room.

Alfred approached her bed and looked down at her, his brow furrowing worriedly. "Miss Fox," he said, "are you… asleep, Miss?" He watched her for a long moment, then gingerly lifted her wrist and felt for a pulse. His blood ran cold when he did not find one. He felt a nauseous knot forming in the pit of his stomach. "Oh, god," he whispered, letting her hand drop back to the bed.

Alfred backed away a step, and almost tripped over the medical bag, which still lay on the floor. He glanced down at it, then instantly picked it up and opened it, looking for something he might be able to use to resuscitate Jessica. But when he opened the bag, there was only one thing inside it. He paused, not wanting to believe his eyes, and then reached into the bag and pulled out a single playing card.

The Joker.

Just then, the doorbell rang. Still light-headed, Alfred looked up in surprise, then dropped the bag into the chair next to Jessica's bed and made his way to the front door. He opened it, looking out, wild-eyed, at the person standing on the front stoop. A petite brown-haired nurse stood there, holding a bag of medical supplies. She frowned slightly at the sight of Alfred's anxious expression.

"Is now a bad time?" she asked.

. . .

White sat down at the bar and carelessly tossed a bill onto the countertop. "Mix me up a martini, Tally," he told the silent black man behind the bar. Warren White was a tall man, sturdily built, with immaculately gelled salt-and-pepper hair and a stern-looking moustache over full lips. "Dirty. Shaken, not stirred." He grinned at his own cleverness.

"Well, well," drawled Cobblepot, sitting down beside White at the bar and looking over at him in slight disdain. "Look what the cat dragged in."

"On the contrary," White grinned at him. "I seem to have dragged the cat in." As he said this, a blonde woman came and sat down on his other side, seemingly ignoring him as she pulled a cigarette from her bag and lit up. "Selina," White said, turning to her, "I'd like you to meet my associate, Mr. Oswald Cobblepot."

"Charmed," Selina said in an unenthused tone without even sparing Cobblepot a glance. Selina Kyle was a woman of about thirty, with a curvy shape accented by a slick black dress with a slit up the side, exposing her shapely legs. Her black stiletto sandals gave her the illusion of being an unusually tall woman, but she stood at an average height, and she wore her bottle-blonde hair swept up into a modern, prestigiously messy bun. Her stone grey eyes were cold and unfriendly, and she wore bright-red lipstick and black eyeliner, giving her an intense look.

"You seem so down today, sweetcheeks," White said, giving her a faux disappointed look. "I hope I haven't upset you."

"Are you Bruce Wayne?" she asked, turning to look at him.

"No, I'm not Bruce Wayne," he answered candidly.

"Then you've upset me," she replied, returning her attention to her cigarette.

White chuckled and turned back to Cobblepot. "She has a fascination with that Bruce Wayne character," he said. "Seems to think clean money has some kind of advantage over dirty money."

"Wouldn't want to get her pretty hands dirty," Cobblepot agreed with a smirk. "Might ruin her nails."

"Or claws, in her case," answered White with a grin. "Ain't that right, pussycat?"

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Warren," Selina sighed, taking a long drag of her cigarette and then exhaling the smoke slowly. White watched her for a moment longer, then turned back to Cobblepot.

"Women can be such joykills sometimes," he said, still trying to pull off his effortless carelessness.

"You should try men, darling," Cobblepot answered simply, taking a drag of his own cigarette. "They're so much easier to get along with. And so much more willing to just leave what happens in Vegas, there."

"I don't think I want to know what you been up to, Cobblepot," White said warily.

"No," said Cobblepot, exhaling smoke, "but apparently you want _me_ to know what _you've_ been up to." He turned to White, giving him his undivided attention.

"You listenin'?" asked White, grinning.

"I'm all ears, my dear," answered Cobblepot, taking a deep drag of his cigarette.

White smirked, looking away for a moment as Tally set his drink in front of him. He took a sip of the martini, then turned back to Cobblepot. "We got this new thing goin' on," he said in a lower voice. "We just started it up. Gonna make us some big bucks, we think." He glanced over his shoulder at Selina, then back at Cobblepot. "_Dogs,_" he said with a kind of morbid finality, dragging out the word with a satisfied grin. He took another drink of his martini.

Cobblepot frowned slightly, letting his cigarette smoke. "You're breeding dogs, Warren?" he asked. "That seems too… honourable."

"Not _breeding,_ fuck no," White said, frowning and shaking his head vehemently. "Fighting."

Cobblepot nodded slowly, still staring at him in slight confusion. "Fighting?" he asked.

"Yeah, fighting," said White, "Dog fighting. In a cage, or in a ring – you know. Underground shit, no rules." He took a drink of his martini. "Winning dog is the last dog standing."

Cobblepot nodded again. "It sounds…" he said, considering it as he tapped the ashes of his cigarette into an ashtray on the counter. "Illegal."

"Oh, it is," White assured him with a grin. "_Very._ But ain't no cop stupid enough to get close enough to a dog-fighting ring to do no harm. Them dogs, they'll rip a copper's head off in no time flat."

"And what type of dogs are you planning on using in this oh-so-illegal dog-fighting ring, Warren?" asked Cobblepot, returning the cigarette to his mouth. "Pit bulls?"

"Pft, fuck no. Pit bulls are old school," Warren said with a sceptical frown. "We're breeding the big bad dogs. Meaner n' hell, and twice as dumb. Rip any fucker's head off what gets close enough to get bit."

"And what exactly kinds of dogs are these monstrosities?" asked Cobblepot.

"Rottweilers," said White with a grin. He pulled a Cuban cigar from his jacket pocket and unwrapped it, putting it in his mouth, pulling out his lighter and lighting up. He exhaled in satisfaction, stuffing the lighter back into his jacket pocket, and turned back to Cobblepot. "Big, mean sons of bitches. Got balls on 'em the size of apples."

"They sound charming," said Cobblepot airily.

"Charming what'll rip your fuckin' _head_ off," White agreed with a bark of laughter.

"I hate dogs," sighed Selina, stubbing out her cigarette in one of the ashtrays that lined the bar.

White turned to look at her. "And dogs ain't your biggest fans, neither, dollface," he told her with a critical smirk. He turned back to Cobblepot. "She's just got somethin' about her. Dogs see 'er, they go nuts. I've never seen someone who can whip a dog into a killin' frenzy just by lookin' at 'em, but them dogs, they hate her." He chuckled, returning to Cuban cigar to his mouth. "That's why I keep her around," he said.

. . .

The notes Thomas had been working on all week ended up strewn across his tiny cubicle in one of his temper tantrums. Bits of looseleaf and sticky pads were pasted all over his desk; snapshots of Batman, the commissioner, police uniforms and equipment accompanied them. The cubicle was, in layman's terms, a fucking pigsty. Like his car, though, the disorganized clutter didn't bother Thomas in the least. It was almost comforting. God only knew he needed some comfort.

He rested his head in hands and inspected his most recent attempt at an article.

It was shit. It was _all_ shit, everything that he'd begun in the last few days. But it was shit that he'd have to try to sell to the editor if he was going to keep his job.

"Hale, you ready for the meeting?" A fellow reporter popped his head into the stall, peering curiously at the mess. Thomas snorted. Ready? Not exactly. He'd have to get by with what he had.

"Sure," he said in his usual friendly, controlled tone. "Be up in a sec." The other man nodded and walked away, leaving Thomas to gather up what information he'd been able to get and straighten his tie. Meetings always unnerved him, no matter how many of them he had to go to a week. There was always that feeling that, if he said or did one wrong thing, he'd be kicked to the curb. Not too far from the truth, really, he reflected.

The conference room was on the top floor of the Gotham Times headquarters. It was a huge room, ringed completely in glass walls, and containing only one long table. Thomas took a seat at one of the revolving chairs. He didn't bother to check the view any more. Everyone knew what they would find, and the clouds of smog hovering over the city weren't exactly uplifting. So, instead, he spent his time shuffling through his papers and trying to look confidently casual.

All too soon, he heard the familiarly booming voice of the head editor. "Alright boys…and girls," he corrected himself, nodding with a smirk to the only female in the room (everyone knew she was there to prevent issues with the women's rights groups in the city; the editors were all well-known misogynists), "let's get down to business. First off, any news of Batman?"

Thomas took a chance, however vague it might be, when he saw it. "No, but I have news of the Joker." The rest of the room let out a collective sigh. They'd known this was coming. His boss nodded at him to continue. "I went to Gotham General yesterday. I know for a fact that the Joker was taken there Wednesday night after a scuffle with Batman." He was really starting to appreciate his informant at the hospital. She'd _seen_ Napier being escorted through the hospital by Gordon. "But when I went there yesterday, no nurse had heard of him being there. I had them check the books, and he _wasn't there_." Thomas grinned proudly.

The editors didn't look so sure of the story. "Sounds good, Hale, but this one needs more details." He nodded. He could do that. "Why don't you go pay a visit to the station, see what Gordon can tell you?" suggested one of the editors. It was clear that he meant now. Thomas grabbed his folders and loose papers, nodded to the room, and left.

Time to do his job.

. . .

Kent checked his watch, then got up from his desk at the Gotham police department. He checked to make sure he had put the sticky note telling Gordon that Maria had called in plain sight so the man would see it when he got back. Kent placed the sticky note on the corner of Gordon's desk, noting as he did how popular Gordon seemed to be. Then again, Gordon was the senior officer, and it surprised Kent that he had not been given a promotion. Kent had to admit that even he admired the man's stalwart, honest, straightforward methods, and that Gordon was a far better policeman than Kent even flattered himself to think he, himself, was.

"All right, well, I'm out," Kent said, and a few of the other officers looked up at him and smiled or raised a hand in farewell before going back to their busywork. Kent pulled his coat off the rack near the back of the building - he lived in that direction, and liked to walk to and from work; it was good exercise. He opened the door, checking to make sure he still had his gun, badge, and other accessories, before shutting the door behind him.

He inhaled deeply, taking in the Gotham air that he had become accustomed to, and started on his way down one of the alleys behind the police station. He checked his watch again, frowning slightly. His wife would be curt with him when he got home - he got off work at five, but he always liked to put in a little extra time, hoping to get his own promotion, and now it was almost five-thirty.

He sighed, continuing on his way towards home, when suddenly, something caught his attention. He stopped in his tracks, a confused look crossing his face as he stared at what seemed to be a very tall nurse in the alleyway. "Miss?" he called. The nurse did not turn around. Kent took a cautious step forward. Gotham General was almost on the other side of town from the police station, so he did not know what a nurse from Gotham General would be doing on his side of town, and especially in the back alley behind the Gotham police station.

Kent cleared his throat. "Ma'am?" he asked, in a louder voice. "Ma'am, are you lost?"

The nurse turned around, and Kent took a horrified step backwards. The Joker grinned wickedly at him, his scars accented in the shadows of the back alley, his dark eyes barely visible iniquitously in the wan light. "No," he said, "I don't believe I am."

Kent's uniform fit him perfectly, and he folded the nurse outfit over his arm as he checked to make sure he had not dropped the badge, gun, or any other useful accessories that came with the policeman's outfit. He glanced back at the mangled, bloody corpse of the unlucky officer and paused. "Mm," he mused. Perhaps it had been a bit much to take the man's whole arm off when Kent had pulled the gun. Just snapping his wrist would have sufficed. Then again, Joker reasoned, it would have made it a lot more difficult to dispatch the man if the officer had had both arms to fight with.

Joker thought a moment, then looked back down at the outfit. Then he looked back at the dead officer again and grinned. "Thanks for the duds," he said, then turned and started out of the alley.

. . .

Gordon entered the office and paused when he saw his name looking back at him from one of the nearby desks. He sipped his coffee as he walked over and pulled the sticky note from the corner of Kent's empty desk. The man would be on the way home to his wife by now, Gordon thought with a smile as he read the note. Kent was like clockwork, always got off work a half-hour later than he was supposed to, but always got off at that time, nonetheless.

Gordon frowned slightly, taking another sip of coffee as he read the sticky note Kent had left for him. Maria had called him? He wondered why… He folded up the square of paper and tossed it into the nearest rubbish-bin, drinking from his coffee cup and turning towards his desk. Maria calling the station could only mean one of a few things, none of which were potentially very positive.

Gordon sighed, sitting at his desk and clearing some papers aside to put his coffee cup down. He hesitated, staring at the phone sitting on his desk. He could call Maria back, he thought, or he could feign ignorance. He had an idea that he knew exactly what she was calling to ask about, and he was not exactly eager to tell her that the Gotham Police Station had, once again, been outsmarted by the makeup-wearing lunatic.

Then, it was not the Police Station, he realized… it was _him._ He, Gordon, had been responsible for keeping track of the nut on both accounts, and he, Gordon, had managed to let him slip through his fingers both times.

It was too humiliating to think about. But there was no escaping it, so he might as well face up to his mistakes.

Gordon leaned forward with a heavy sigh and picked up the phone, dialling Maria's number. He sat back in his chair and waited as the phone rang. He was relieved when he got the answering machine. Somehow, talking to a machine instead of a person seemed so much easier in situations like this one.

Gordon took a deep breath, then began, "Maria... this is Gordon, down at the police station. Listen..." He paused, exhaling. Even if he was speaking to a machine, it was still hard to admit failure, especially when the person the message was directed towards had so much at stake. "He got away. We don't know how, one minute he was there, and then the next..."

Gordon hesitated again, settling himself, and then went on, "You need to be on your guard. He's using disguises now. We have the feeling –_ I_ have the feeling," he clarified, "that he probably won't be using the purple suit for a bit. He's probably going to be on the down-low, but a lot of people have seen his face without the paint. You're one of them. Maria..." He leaned forward in his chair. "If it wouldn't be too much to ask... I would really appreciate it if you would be one of our lookouts for Jack Napier. He's a dangerous person... as you know," he said, "and it will take all of us to put him behind bars for good."

He took a deep breath, then exhaled. "Thank you so much for everything you've done thus far," he said, more quietly. "But our work is far from done." He paused, considering saying something else, and then hung up the phone. He leaned back in his chair, then put his hands on his face and groaned.

"What have I done?" he said.


	33. Chapter ThirtyTwo

Napier sat on the bed in the apartment he now inhabited, staring at the open gun case on the bed. He gently stroked the weapon, considering it pensively, lost in thought. He had no idea how to use the weapon; it was too sophisticated and complicated for him to use, but that was not really what was getting to him. Seeing the weapon made him think of Jeanette, and Jeanette made him think of…

He sighed, closing the case, and stared at his hand on the shiny silver surface for a long moment. She had wanted to work with a mastermind, a maniacal genius, and instead she had gotten a mess. He could not really blame her for turning him out like that; it was more forgiving what he, himself, would have done, had he been presented with the same situation. In fact, it was surprisingly compassionate, considering the chain of events that had led up to his expulsion from her life. And, he realized, he had not really had any right to take her possessions and destroy her home.

Then again, he reasoned, he had never really cared whether or not he had any right to do what he did. He just did it. Why should now be any different?

Napier rubbed his bare knees with his palms, sighing as he stared over into the closet he had turned into his own. It held various outfits, including the new policeman outfit he had just recently acquired. He tugged absentmindedly on the edge of his boxers, thinking. After one use, an outfit became useless. Every outfit besides the policeman's outfit and his signature purple outfit, which he had managed to retrieve that day after his exhilarating episode with the assistant director of Arkham Asylum, had been used.

Somehow, getting his hands bloody had done wonders to clear his head. It was like a breath of clean air, and it had brought back all the memories of his previous episodes of mania into clear focus. He had found his suitcase of tricks, his machine gun, his signature outfit, and even, with a burst of euphoria, the business suit he had worn to the gala at Wayne Enterprises.

He stared at the business suit in the closet, back at the silver case, and then back at the suit again.

There was nothing wrong with wearing a good suit twice.

Napier hesitated, then sighed and glanced over at the bed stand. He paused, then picked up a framed photograph sitting by the side of the bed. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at it. It was a photograph of the girl, Harleen, and another woman, seemingly older, with flowing ginger hair, stunning green eyes, clad in a slinky green dress that accented her perky, full breasts. Napier found himself grinning. So this was the Pamela Isley that Harleen had mentioned earlier. She was nothing like Napier had imagined. Then again, he reasoned, setting the photograph back down on the nightstand, his imagination was a scary place.

He looked up, then stood from the bed, running a hand through his greasy, matted hair. He would have to at least rinse it before heading out that night. Maybe, he thought, heading towards the bathroom, if he was feeling particularly in the mood for dressing up, he might even go as far as to wash it. He paused in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection looking back at him.

Then again, he reasoned, probably not.

He pushed a swathe of hair from his eyes and turned away from his reflection to look down at the dead girl, still laying motionless on the bathroom floor. He paused a moment, looking at her, then picked up the pair of scissors lying next to her head, a slight smirk etching the corners of his mouth at her funny appearance. He would keep her around, he decided, just in case he needed any other part of her for future jobs. But, then again, he had already used up her most useful resource when he cut off all her hair to use for his nurse getup.

He moved back into the bedroom, running a thoughtful finger across the elastic band of his boxers as he slowly opened and closed the scissors, staring at them. He set the scissors down on the nightstand, then sat down on the bed and looked down at his feet carelessly, then looked up at the clock on the wall. He still had fifteen minutes until the Iceberg Lounge - the only place he could sell weapons like the one he had gotten from Jeanette without drawing too much attention to himself - started to get into full swing, and it was just down the street. With any luck, he would be able to get a good deal from selling the gun and restock his supply of bullets and explosives.

He got up from the bed, crossing to the closet and pulling out the suit. He wondered what his story would be this time, whether he was one of the good guys or an advocate of the crime world. At this point, he figured, it did not really matter. All that mattered was that he kept his head. The Iceberg Lounge was known for being a criminal hotspot, and criminals were not quick to forgive or forget. One wrong move and it could mean certain death. As the Joker, Napier exuded the same kind of terrorizing menace, but as some shady businessman, everyone would be eyeing him sideways, trying to discern the best possible moment to snap his neck.

He laid the suit out on the bed and started to slip it on. He had not had a drink all day, and, he told himself, he would refrain from doing so once he reached the Lounge. He needed to keep as level-headed and sane as possible, in case someone tried to pull a fast one on him.

No one, he told himself, slipping on the jacket, would pull the wool over his eyes ever again.

. . .

Harvey Dent checked his hair, then his watch, and then his hair again. It was six o' clock, and he wanted to be just on time for the date. It was not that it was a big, important event for him; it was that in order for his spite to play out perfectly, every little detail in his malicious plan had to work perfectly. Of course, he only thought of it that way to amuse himself. In reality, he saw nothing wrong with what he was doing. It only served Rachel right, he told himself again.

He sighed, turning up the jazz on the radio a little bit inside his air-conditioned car, sitting just outside the Iceberg Lounge. Dent pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, knocked one out, and, pulling a lighter from his other pocket, lit up. He exhaled the smoke in a sharp line, staring at the doors of the Lounge, watching the well-dressed underground of Gotham strutting their stuff through the doors. Of course, he was not about to do anything about it; he was the one who was keeping the Lounge from going under.

Dent took another drag of the cigarette, grinning to himself. Everyone in Gotham saw him as such a good guy, a beacon in the dark times the city was going through, when really Dent was almost as crooked as the rest of them. And on top of that, he was dating this poor bastard just to get back at Rachel.

So he was two-faced. It was a childish insult, but it was probably the most accurate one he could think of. What Shawn - and Rachel - did not know could not hurt them. And if he had his way, he reasoned, letting the smoke seep from his lips, the date would not end once dinner concluded itself.

He wondered if poor, meek Shawn Palmer had ever gotten anywhere with a man before. Then, with an almost cruel chuckle, he wondered if poor, meek Shawn Palmer had ever gotten anywhere at _all._

He checked his watch again. Six-o-five. Still a good twenty-five minutes before the date was officially to start. He took another deep inhale of the cigarette, closing his eyes and relaxing.

"Oh, Harvey," he chuckled to himself, exhaling the smoke in a satisfied sigh. "You absolute _devil._"

. . .

Napier sauntered into the Iceberg Lounge, holding the slim silver case in one hand, the other hand tucked in his pocket. He had decided to wash his hair, and now it was styled in a slightly softer, cleaner fashion than before, giving him a somewhat more sophisticated, business-like look about him. He had seen a man wearing a pair of glasses on his way to the Lounge and had considered throttling him and taking the eyewear, but then decided against it.

The glasses had cracked when he had throttled the man, anyways, and no self-respecting businessman wore cracked glasses.

The bouncer at the front of the Lounge had given him an odd look when he had pulled out a slender salmon wallet, which Napier knew had once belonged to Harleen but which he was not obliged nor required to admit that fact, to get the bills to pay his entrance from, but had overlooked it when Napier had given him a nice tip for not mentioning anything about him if anyone were to ask. Napier had no idea why anyone would be asking after him, but in this part of town, one could never be sure.

Napier checked his watch, which was once accessory he had consented to take off the throttled man. It was six-fifteen. He sighed, looking around for someone who would know the shady, elusive arms dealer that ran the place, and his expression lightened when his eyes fell on a woman who was clearly, by her manner and her heavily bejewelled attire, the hostess of the Lounge. Napier made his way through a few smoky crowds of people until he stood before Maggie. She was busy talking to someone, but he cleared his throat, and she turned to look at him.

A look of surprise and almost mortification crossed Maggie's face when her eyes first fell on him, but her expression soon cleared, and she smiled graciously up at him. "Can I… help you?" she asked.

"Uh, yeah," Napier said, scratching behind his ear, "I'm actually looking for someone… maybe you can help me."

"Sure thing, sweetie," Maggie said. Napier instantly stiffened at the nickname. "Who are you looking for?"

Napier took a deep breath, settling himself, then cleared his throat. "I'm looking to sell," he said in a low voice, indicating the slim silver case.

"Oh," Maggie said, nodding slowly, "Oh, you want me to get Os for you."

"Sure," Napier said. Whoever 'Os' was, obviously he was someone important, and Napier would probably be looked down upon for not knowing who 'Os' was.

"Okay, darling, I'll be just a moment," Maggie said. Napier felt his shoulder blades freeze up again at the sickeningly sweet nickname as he watched Maggie walk away. He sighed heavily, then checked his watch again. Six-twenty. He pushed the sleeve of his jacket down over the watch again, looking around at all of the people in the Lounge, and finally his sights settled on the bar.

Napier frowned, fidgeting slightly. He had other options, he told himself. He could mingle with the people in the Lounge, or he could just stand still until the hostess came back with this 'Os' character. He looked away from the bar, clearing his throat. He could go outside for a smoke… he patted his pockets. He had no cigarettes anyways, so that option was out of the question. He nervously looked back towards the bar.

He would have one drink, he told himself. Just one.

Napier hesitated, frozen in place, then started over towards the bar and sat down, setting the slim silver case next to him. He looked up at the big bartender. "I'll, uh…" He paused, considering. "I'll have gin, on the rocks," he said. Tally nodded, then silently went to making Napier's drink.

Napier tapped the counter nervously with his knuckles, looking around. The faster the hostess got back with 'Os', the better, he thought. He hated this tension. He looked up again when his drink was dropped on the counter in front of him. He looked at the drink, then at Tally. "That was quick," he commented with a seemingly friendly grin. Tally said nothing.

Napier hesitated, a little thrown by the man's stolid silence, and lifted his glass, taking a sip from it. He paused, staring at the glass for a long moment. Then, "What's your name?" Napier asked, looking up at Tally. Tally stared back at him, silent. Napier nodded, raising his glass to the man. "Good to meet you," he said, and drank to him.

"His name's Tally," said White. Napier swallowed and looked over at White, who was watching him intently.

"Tally?" asked Napier, smirking slightly. "No last name?"

"Mann," replied White. "But everyone just calls him 'Tally.'" He paused, taking the Cuban cigar from his mouth and puffing out the smoke. "He don't talk," he added.

Napier nodded slowly. "Oh," he said. He looked back at Tally and grinned awkwardly at him. "Hi," he said.

Tally said nothing, just stared, his arms crossed across his barrel-like chest.

Napier's grin faded into a look of scorned disgusted. "Fine," he said, taking another drink.

White stared at Napier hard, squinting at him. "How'd you get them scars?" he asked slowly.

Napier looked up at him in interest, finishing swallowing, and an enthused expression crossed his face. "Would you like to know how I got these scars?" he asked. He paused, looking away, and then opened his mouth to start, when just then, Maggie walked up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. Napier jumped slightly, looking back at her. "Oh," he said, "it's you."

"Os can see you now," Maggie said, offering him a polite smile before turning away again and disappearing into the crowd.

Napier watched her for a moment, then turned back to White, nodding to him and lifting his glass. "Well, good to meet you," he said. He finished his drink, then indicated White with the glass again. "What's your name, by the way?" he asked.

"White," said White with a grin, his Cuban cigar smouldering devilishly in his hand. "Warren White. You must be new around here, to have not heard about me."

Napier shook his head, setting his glass down on the counter. "Nope," he answered. "I just listen to the really _important_ news." He turned back to Tally and nodded to him as well. "Good meeting you, too," he said with a grin. Tally just stared. Napier retained the grin this time, getting up from his seat, picking up the slim silver case, and heading into the back room.

Napier looked around at the dark gloominess of the back room, biting his lip. He had to act natural, he told himself. If he looked any at all out-of-place, this shady arms dealer would try to take advantage of him. He cleared his throat, standing straight, and stuffed the hand not holding the silver case back into his pocket.

"You wanted to see me?"

Napier turned to see Oswald Cobblepot standing in the doorway, a smouldering cigarette in one hand, the other hand in his pocket. Napier hesitated, a little thrown off. "Uh… yeah," he finally managed.

Cobblepot chuckled. "Don't tell me," he said. "You were expecting someone…" He paused, thinking. "Taller," he finally said.

"And straighter," Napier added before he could stop himself.

Cobblepot looked at him, turning his head slightly, his expression somewhere between taken aback and amused. "I see," he said. He paused another moment, then moved forward into the room. "So, what have we here?" he asked, indicating the silver case.

Napier instantly sprang into action as soon as Cobblepot mentioned the weapon. He opened the case, showing off the gun inside. "It's really nice," said Napier, unsure of what else to say. "I think it's worth a lot."

"They always do," sighed Cobblepot, looking at the gun. He had instantly recognized the weapon as the one he had sold to Jeanette, but experience had taught him to keep his mouth closed. He leaned back, his eyes returning to Napier, his expression bored and disdainful. "Well, I don't think it's worth as much as you might hope," he told Napier.

Napier frowned slightly. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?" he asked.

Cobblepot shrugged. "I mean, it's not as nice a weapon as you might have hoped," he answered. He took a drag of his cigarette, then exhaled the smoke slowly. "Do you mind if I ask where you got it?" he asked.

"I, uh…" He paused, considering his story. "I found it," he finally said. He cringed at the stupidity of his story; he could have kicked himself.

Cobblepot stared at him, his cigarette smouldering. "Oh, really?" he asked.

"Yep," answered Napier.

Cobblepot looked at the gun again, then back up at Napier. "You… found it?" he asked.

"Yep," Napier answered again.

There was a long silence. Then Cobblepot took a breath. "All right," he said. There was another silence. Then Cobblepot looked up at Napier again. "Have you ever heard of someone by the name _Jeanette Rossini?_" he asked.

Napier considered the question for a moment, then shook his head. "Nope," he answered.

Cobblepot nodded, then looked back at the gun. "Well, I must say, this gun is nearly worthless," he said with a sigh. "I'm afraid I can't offer you more than… five hundred, for it."

"Bullshit," Napier replied, perhaps too quickly. "This is a nice gun. One grand or no deal."

Cobblepot looked a little taken aback for a moment, then cleared his throat, regaining his composure. He had sold the gun to Jeanette originally for four thousand, so even one thousand for it back was a good deal, but if he let that show to this neophyte, he might demand a higher price. Finally Cobblepot sighed. "You drive a hard bargain," he said, looking up at Napier. "But I accept." He gave him a slippery smile, reaching out for the gun case.

Napier closed the case and handed it over to Cobblepot, who set to work counting bills out of his pocket. As he handed them to Napier, he took a deep breath, thinking. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "we're having a high-stakes card game upstairs in a bit, if you'd like to join us, since you… seem to be a man of a rather nice fortune." He smiled at this last. Probably the only money in this man's pocket was the cash he was just given, but Cobblepot could cheat him out of it either way. It did not matter much to him.

Napier looked up in interest at the offer, and a grin began to split his face. "I think I'll have to take you up on that offer," he said, folding up the money and stuffing it into his pocket.

Cobblepot grinned at him, tapping the ashes from the end of his cigarette. "Peachy," he said quietly.

. . .

Shawn was intensely happy that he'd chosen to take a cab. There wasn't a chance that he could've driven there and arrived with a pulse.

He stepped out of the cab, thanking the driver for the umpteenth time before it screeched away, then straightened up and ran his hand over his hair. He was careful not to disturb it, but the caution wasn't really necessary; he'd drenched it with so much hairspray that it would take a hurricane to ruin it. He took his glasses off, cleaning them nervously on the bottom of his jacket, then slipped them back on, looking up at the intimidating Iceberg Lounge.

The place was...scary. Not at all what Shawn had expected. And not posh, but who was _he_ to judge? He drew in a deep breath and blew it out, fingers fidgeting and tugging on the bottom of his jacket. He'd dressed as well as he dared, in inconspicuous black. It was stiffly ironed (by himself, of course; he didn't understand why you'd pay someone to do something if you were able to do it) and weighed heavily on his scrawny shoulders. He heaved another huge sigh and jerked when he saw Harvey heading his way.

_Calm down. Breathe. Calm down, be normal, relax._ The words ran through his head automatically; he'd set up the mantra earlier that day. He was just going to try to enjoy this as much as possible, because there was no chance in hell that it'd ever happen again.

Dent exhaled the last remnants of his second cigarette of the evening and stubbed the dwindling cherry out in the ashtray of his car. He checked his watch, then looked up at the Iceberg Lounge again. It was six-twenty-nine. In another minute, he would be meeting his date. Dent opened the glove compartment of his car and rummaged around until he found a spray-bottle of scented oil. He did not know Shawn's feelings about smoking, and he did not want to throw the date before it even started.

Dent smirked as he looked through his menagerie of scents, most of which were flowers, which had been picked out for him by Rachel. He pulled out an aftershave-like-scented can, shook it, and then sprayed himself, checking his tie to make sure he did not still smell of smoke. He sprayed again, then tossed the little bottle back into the glove compartment.

He was about to close it again, when a wry grin came to his face. He pulled a bottle of the flowery spray from the glove compartment and, without even checking the label to see what kind of flower he had pulled, he sprayed it once on himself, then threw it back into the glove compartment with the other scents and closed it, exhaling contentedly.

If he did not smell enticing _now,_ he was not sure he ever would.

Dent opened the door of his car, stepping outside and shutting the door behind him, taking a deep breath of Gotham air. He smiled, checking his watch. Six-thirty, on the dot. He looked up, looking around, and a smile came to his face when he spotted Shawn. "Shawn!" he called, waving the man over. He approached Shawn, clapping a hand on his back. "So glad you could make it," he said.

Dent put his hand on Shawn's back and subtly let it slide until his hand rested in the small of the younger man's back. He grinned over at the Shawn, letting the motion sink in, then indicated towards the Lounge. "Shall we?" he asked.

Shawn flinched the instant Harvey's hand touched his back, and cringed even more as it slowly slid down, but he worked a half-genuine, half-nauseous, and all-terrified smile onto his face. "S-sure." _Get the stutter out of there..._ "And thanks." Christ, was that _cologne_? Shawn nearly raised a hand to his own mouth to test his breath and decided against it.

Besides, he'd eaten enough mints in the last half hour to feed a third-world country for a year.

Dent smiled at Shawn's nervous disposition. "No need to be shy with me, Shawn," he said, grinning widely. "Just be comfortable. Be yourself… that's all I want." He rubbed Shawn's back, moving his hand to Shawn's arm, rubbing slowly up and down the shoulder. He smiled at him, then started towards the Lounge, making sure Shawn was following. "Come on," he said. "Wouldn't want to leave you behind."

Napier emerged from the back room, his hand over his pocket, and looked around. He saw no familiar faces at the Lounge, which was good. Then again, it might have been good to know someone. He shook the thought from his mind. He had no friends, no acquaintances. He was his own person, and he did not need anyone else. Just then, he looked up, and an expression of utmost surprise crossed his face.

"The famous Harvey Dent… out on a date with a _guy?_" asked Napier with an amused lilt to his voice.

Dent stopped dead in his tracks. Then he spun to face Napier. "It's none of your business who I'm going out with," he snapped, getting up in Napier's face.

Napier raised his eyebrows. "I hear ya, I hear ya, DA," Napier said, shrugging and putting up his hands to show he meant no harm. "Just mentionin', was all. Thought it was a little… out of the ordinary."

Dent paused for a moment, staring at Napier, trying to get his breathing back down to normal. "Well, it's not," he said darkly. "It's_ perfectly_ normal. _Perfectly _normal. But I still don't want you mentioning it to anybody." His breathing slowed, and he found himself taking in Napier's features. Then Dent frowned deeply when he saw the strange scarring around his mouth. "What happened to you?" he asked, perhaps a bit too straightforward. "You get into a fight with a razor or something?"

Napier wet his lips. "You're funny," he said flatly. Then he turned and started to walk away.

Dent stared after him for a moment, then let out a huff of breath and turned back to Shawn with a smile. "Sorry about that," he said, going back to his original, cool, upbeat manner. He took Shawn's hand and put it to his face.

"Aw, look at you." Napier barged into their moment again, snickering. "Pretty soon you're gonna start calling each other silly pet names and giggling around with each other in public."

"Just ignore him," Dent told Shawn. "He'll go away in a little bit. Trust me."

"Calling each other at work, leaving little messages on each other's cell phones…" Napier wet his lips again. "You see his name on your caller ID… pick up the phone…" He paused for effect, then said, "Hello,_ beautiful._"

Dent froze. He knew that voice from somewhere. He turned slowly to look at Napier. "Have we… met before?" he asked, squinting at Napier as if it would better help him to recognize the man.

Napier shrugged. "Nope, never," he said quickly. "Nope, nope… never met Harvey Dent. Never seen him face-to-face."

Dent frowned. He was almost certain he recognized Napier's voice from somewhere, but he could not quite place where. Then again, Napier had said that he had never met Dent face-to-face, so it was perfectly possible that Dent was imagining it. Plus, he reasoned, he would have remembered being approached on the street by somebody this recognizable, especially with those bizarre scars… He shook his head. "I'm sorry… nevermind," he said.

Then Dent turned back to Shawn. "Come on, let's get to our table before Os gives it to someone else," he said, joking slightly. He took Shawn's hand and led him away from Napier, chatting with him about some light and airy, but meaningless, topic.

Napier followed him, then put a hand on his shoulder, turning him to face him again. "Actually," he said, "I _do_ believe we've met before. At the gala."

Dent frowned slightly, still trying for a careless façade, but it was quickly cracking. "I'm sorry, gala?" he asked.

"You know," said Napier. "That big one that Bruce Wayne threw… we met there."

"Oh, that's right," said Dent. "Casper Dolohov, right?"

"Yeah," Napier drawled, as if only half-sure of his own name. He wet his lips, then grinned at Dent. "You smell really good," he commented in a low voice. Then his grin began to fade. He leaned closer to Dent, taking another smell of the spray Dent had used, a frown starting to crease his face. "You smell… really familiar," he said, his voice halting. "I… know that scent."

Dent frowned at him, horrified, and wrenched his shoulder away from Napier's grasp. "Fuck off, you creep!" he said sharply. He looked back at Shawn, then turned to Napier again. "Why don't you go home to your wife?" he asked bitterly. He paused, then added, "If you _have _one."

Napier stepped back, staggered. He could not even think of a retort for that. Dent let out an annoyed, almost triumphant huff of breath, then turned back to Shawn. "Let's get our table," he said, indicating towards it with his free hand. He smiled at Shawn as if nothing had happened, giving him enamoured eyes. "Then maybe we can get some dinner," he added, "and maybe even consider _dessert._"

Dent grinned at Shawn, then started towards the table, his hand still in Shawn's, taking Shawn with him.

Napier stared after him for a moment, barely hearing what he was saying. The familiar scent had been the scent of a flower, one that Napier knew because it was his favourite… the same flower Kitty always scented her hair with. He looked up, dizzy, and put a hand to his head. Go home to his wife… he would, but Dent was absolutely right. He did not have one. And that scent… it brought back so many memories…

Napier closed his eyes, dragging himself back to reality. He took the hand away from his head, breathing. He needed a drink, badly. He turned towards the bar, where White was busy talking to Tally - because, as he knew now, Tally did not talk back - and he paused a moment. He did not want to go over there. That was admitting a weakness. Not only was it admitting weakness, it was succumbing to it. He bit his lip. He had promised himself earlier just one drink, though, he told himself, and he had been good on that. So if he just had one drink now… just to clear the thought of Kitty from his head…

Napier hesitated another moment, then moved to the bar and sat down. He tried to smile at Tally, but failed. "I'll have a Screwdriver," he said without thinking. "Two parts vodka. No ice." He tapped his knuckles impatiently against the counter as he waited for his drink, and as soon as Tally placed it in front of him, he picked it up and took a drink of it. He set down the glass on the counter, sighing.

White looked over at him, slightly sceptical. "You okay?" he asked.

Napier cleared his throat, then looked down at his glass, which was already half-empty. "I'm fine," he said. He paused, then took another swig of his drink. It was certainly making him feel better. He pressed the cool glass to his forehead, calming his pulse. "I'm fine," he said again, more quietly. He hesitated, then finished off the drink and set the glass down in front of him, staring at it.

White stared at him for a long moment, then looked back up at Tally. "Give the man another, Tally," he said. "On me. He's obviously got a lot on his mind."

"Oh, no," said Napier, putting up a hand. "I can't, really…"

"Oh, it's no problem," said White, "I got plenty a' cash, you don't need to worry about a couple bucks. On me." He indicated for Tally to pour Napier another glass, which Tally did. Napier watched, almost in helpless horror, as the glass filled up again. Then White turned to him. "Go on," he said.

Napier looked at the glass, and then at White. "No, you don't understand…" he said.

"Sure I do," White grinned at him. "Any man who looks as harassed as you deserves a drink to settle his nerves. Go on, drink up."

Napier stared at White for a long moment, then looked at Tally, and finally looked back at the glass. "Well," he said, lifting the glass with a slightly uncomfortable, but hopeful, smile, "one more never hurt anybody."

White grinned at him. "That's the spirit," he said.


	34. Chapter ThirtyThree

Jeanette didn't care what anyone else said, black _was_ her color.

She inspected the slinky dress she'd picked up earlier that day in the bathroom mirror. She spun carefully in the confined space, watching the bottom of the dress flutter out. It was stylish and short, halting above her knee in some light, wavy fabric. She looked at herself in the mirror, surprised to see the approving smile on her face.

Why? Why in the _world_ was she concerned about her appearance tonight? All that mattered was getting Kitty back together with Napier and making sure that Napier understood exactly what Crane had done to the woman. Then she could just sit back and watch that arrogant little toerag get torn to pieces. And _then_ she could get back at _Napier_ for blowing up her home (so what if it had been temporary?) and her tools.

She pulled her makeup bag towards her and dug through it for eyeliner. It didn't necessarily mean anything, if she wanted to look pretty. What was wrong with dressing up a bit? And it _was_ the Iceberg Lounge. She ignored how much this sounded like a flimsy justification and ran the black pen along the edge of her eyelid. It _certainly_ had nothing to do with who they were going to see tonight.

She scowled and her hand jerked unintentionally, leaving a streak of black makeup that stretched up to her eyebrow. Ridiculous. She wet a tissue and cleaned it off, deciding not to think about it any more. Besides, there was still Kitty to get ready. Thinking about stupid things like this would only waste time. "Have your outfit on yet?" she called, trusting that the other woman could hear her through the closed bathroom door.

Kitty opened the bathroom door meekly, stepping out to let Jeanette see the black skirt and blouse that she picked out for her. She smiled faintly, showing it to her, and then looked down at it. "It's so nice," she said. She looked back up at Jeanette. "I want to show it to Jeannie Rose," she said. She paused, then turned back towards the bedroom that Jeanette had set up for her and her daughter to share.

Jeannie Rose looked up as soon as her mother entered the room. "You're so pretty, Mommie!" she said, clapping her hands.

"You really think so, baby?" Kitty smiled at her daughter, then looked at her reflection in the mirror that was in the room, smoothing out the front of her dress, sighing as she turned sideways and looked at her figure. She was not as slender or lithe as Jeanette, and it made her a bit sad to see. Jeanette was so nice to her, and she was so lovely, and fearless… everything Kitty wished she was, but was sorely disappointed to discover she was not, nor could probably ever be. Then again, Jeanette exerted a cold sense of carelessness towards the world.

Kitty turned back to the front, looking at the skirt she wore. It saddened her to think about it. She looked at her feathery bangs in the mirror, and found herself wondering how Jeanette became that way. Had she never had someone to love her? Living without love was the worst think Kitty could possibly think of. She was lucky; she had Jeannie Rose, and that was love enough for her.

At the thought of her daughter, Kitty glanced back at Jeannie Rose, who was looking through the new clothes Jeanette had bought her. Kitty smiled at her little girl. "You like the clothes Miss Jeanette bought for Mommie?" she asked.

Jeannie Rose looked up at her with wide, excited eyes. "They're so pretty!" she exclaimed. "Can I wear them, too?" She picked up a skirt and started trying to put it on.

Kitty crossed to her and gently took the skirt away from her. "Maybe when you're a little older, baby," she said with a laugh. "Right now they don't fit you so…" She suddenly stopped, holding the skirt. "Oh…" she moaned, holding her stomach and closing her eyes.

Jeannie Rose looked up at her mother with wide, scared eyes. "Mommie, what's wrong?" she asked, frantic.

Kitty shook her head, putting a hand on Jeannie Rose's head. "Mommie's gonna be okay, baby," she said, her voice halted and pained. "Don't worry… Mommy's just feeling a little unwell…" She let go of Jeannie Rose, dropping the skirt to the floor, and moved towards the door of the room.

"Mommie?!" Jeannie Rose ran after her, grabbing hold of her dress. "Mommie, are you okay?!"

"Mommie's in a little bit of pain right now, sweetie," Kitty said, trying to loosen Jeannie Rose's hand from her skirt. She finally got the little girl's hand free, and she started towards the bathroom, finally coughing up into the sink. She paused, then convulsed again, but nothing came up. Jeannie Rose stood in the doorway of the bathroom, watching her mother with wide, scared eyes.

"Mommie?" she asked quietly.

Kitty looked up at her daughter, her face pale, and tried to put on a weak smile. "Mommie's okay, baby," she said. "I told you Mommie would be okay… didn't I?" She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then cleared her throat and stepped out of the bathroom, taking Jeannie Rose's hand. She took a deep breath as she entered the front room, where she found Jeanette.

Kitty cleared her throat. "I'm feeling a little ill," she said meekly. She looked away, resisting the urge to put her hand back on her stomach. "You go on ahead… I think I'm going to stay here with Jeannie Rose for a bit, until… I feel a little better." She looked up at Jeanette, trying to force a brave smile. "I'll be fine," she said quietly.

Jeanette paused, holding a pair of diamond earrings by her head, about to put them in. "Ill," she said flatly, looking between the two for a moment before sighing and shrugging. She'd just have to spend a little while at the Lounge by herself. It wasn't a big problem.

"All right. If you're sure you'll be fine. I'll hold down the fort until you get there." She fixed the jewelry into her earlobes and pushed her curled hair away from them to be sure it didn't get stuck. Then she looked back at Kitty, hesitant for once. "You know..." she began, then broke off and looked at Jeannie Rose. "I know it's not a good thing to think about, but..." Her eyes found their way back to Kitty's face. "You and I both know what the problem could be." She left it at that, and grabbed her purse from the house, sparing one last look for Jeannie Rose.

"Just something to think about." She dropped a few bills on the counter by the door, so that Kitty could call a cab. With that, she closed the door quietly behind her.

The possibility that Kitty was pregnant was too great for her to ignore any longer. And they both knew who the father had to be. Jeanette shook her head in disgust, considering changing her plan for a moment. She was half-tempted to just go after Crane herself. But she knew that any way Napier thought of killing the guy would be ten times worse than anything _she_ could think of. She smiled grimly and hailed a cab.

Kitty watched Jeanette leave the house, then looked down as she heard the door click closed. She pushed her bangs from her face, biting her lip, trying to keep a strong expression for her daughter. She gently put a hand on her stomach, then looked away, sniffing quietly.

Jeannie Rose looked up at her mother, frowning slightly. "Mommie, what's the matter?" she asked. "What did Miss Jeanette mean, problem?"

Kitty closed her eyes. "Nothing, baby," she said quietly, her voice shaking slightly. "Mommie's just a little bit unwell right now. It's nothing you should be worried about." She sniffed again, looking down at Jeannie Rose, and tried to force a brave smile onto her face. "Okay?" she said. "Don't worry about it. Mommie will be just fine. So don't you worry. Okay?"

Jeannie Rose stared at her mother for a long moment, then nodded. "Okay, Mommie," she said, but there was something in her voice that made it obvious that she was not entirely convinced.

Kitty smiled at her daughter. "Come here," she said, picking her up. She held her daughter close to her, burying her face in the little girl's hair. "Mommie's going to be fine. You'll see," she told her. Then she pulled away, looking at her daughter. "Why don't you go try on some of those clothes Miss Jeanette got for Mommie?" she said.

"Can I?" Jeannie Rose's face instantly lit up.

"Sure," Kitty smiled back. She set her daughter down on the floor, and instantly Jeannie Rose scampered off towards the bedroom. Kitty smiled faintly at her daughter's enthusiasm, and then, almost unintentionally, her hand returned to her stomach. She looked down, then leaned her head back against the wall, and, unable to hold herself back anymore, she broke down into tears.

. . .

Tally dealt out five cards to both Cobblepot and White, and both picked up their hands and looked them over. "Ante up," said Cobblepot, "minimum bid one grand."

"Eh, cheap game," grunted White, throwing down a folded thousand dollars in the middle of the table. "When are you going to start betting for some real cash?"

"Oh, one of these days," Cobblepot chuckled. "When I'm not feeling quite so stingy." Just then, the door opened and Cobblepot looked up to see Napier standing in the doorway, staring in at them, one hand in his pocket, a lock of unruly hair falling in one of his eyes. "Sit down, sit down, luv," said Cobblepot, indicating an empty chair. "We love company. The more the merrier, I always say."

"You _would_, Cobblepot," scoffed White.

"Oh, Warren, you're such a kidder," said Cobblepot, grinning coldly across the table at him as Napier came unsteadily over and took a heavy seat at the table. Tally dealt him a hand of cards.

"Ante up," Cobblepot told him. "One thousand, minimum bid."

"What're we playin'?" Napier asked blurrily, tossing down the crumpled bills from his pocket, then picking up his hand and looking through it.

"Poker," said White. He lit up a Cuban cigar and puffed at it, eying Napier warily. His grey eyes narrowed as he watched Napier, taking in the man's scars. "How'd you get them scars?" he asked, his voice gruff.

Napier looked up at him, hesitated, and then grinned. "You wanna know how I got my scars?" he asked.

"Later," said Cobblepot dismissively, exhaling cigarette smoke and looking at his cards. "Over cocktails."

"I think this joker's had enough to drink as it is," said White bluntly, indicating Napier.

Napier said nothing, but grinned silently.

"You've dealt me another loser, Tally," sighed Cobblepot, looking up at the large black man. "Didn't they ever teach you that it's polite to cheat in favour of the host?" Tally shrugged dismissively, folding his arms. Cobblepot chuckled, looking back at White and Napier. "Does _no one_ around here have a sense of humour?" he asked. Napier shakily raised his hand.

"We would, if you were _funny_, _Penguin_," White said sharply. Napier hesitated, then put his hand down.

Cobblepot sighed, looking at his cards. "Don't be jealous just because I have a more catchy crime nickname than you, Warren," he said airily.

Napier snorted in laughter. Cobblepot and White both looked over at him, slightly reproachful. "What's so funny?" demanded White. Napier looked up at both of them, looking somewhat surprised.

"What?" he asked. "I din' say anything." He looked back at his cards. "Penguin. 'S plenty catchy."

"Not as catchy as _Great White_," answered White haughtily.

Napier snorted in laughter again.

Both men looked up at him, reproachful, again. "What's wrong with those names?" asked Cobblepot, seeming annoyed, despite his cold, careless outer façade.

"Yeah," agreed White, taking the cigar from his teeth. "You got a better one?"

Napier wavered a moment, looking at his cards, then wet his lips. "How 'bout _th' Joker?_" he asked.

"Oh, dear," said Cobblepot quietly, looking down at his cards. "Wouldn't want to fool with him."

"The Joker?" asked White. "That clown?" He scoffed, putting the cigar back in his mouth. "That guy's a _nut,_" he said, looking back at his cards with a sharp chuckle. "They say he's got a sick sense of humour and no interest in benefits. Just likes to blow shit up."

"And kill people," put in Cobblepot quietly. "Mercilessly."

"Yeah, well, fuck 'im," said White, biting down on his cigar. "He ain't got the balls to show his face, he ain't got no right bein' in Gotham."

"Two," said Napier blurrily, setting two cards down in the middle of the table. Tally handed him two new cards, which he put into his hand, wetting his lips.

"Oh, I wouldn't put it past him to be using some kind of disguise," said Cobblepot, pulling three cards from his hand and setting them down in the middle of the table. "Three, please, Tally," he said. Tally handed him three cards silently. Cobblepot put them into his hand, staring at his cards. "I bet he's a sneaky one. Does a lot of work and then just vanishes."

"You think he's some kind of master of disguise?" White barked with laughter. "Hey Tally, you the Joker?" he asked the big black man. Tally stared at him, silently unamused. White turned to Cobblepot then. "Are _you_ the Joker, Cobblepot? Huh? You wearin' some kind of mask over there?" He laughed at his own mockery. Then White turned to Napier. "How 'bout you, friend? Are _you_ the Joker?"

Napier looked up and grinned boozily at him. "Wha's it t'you?" he slurred.

White laughed harder than before. "Oh, that would be a good one," he said, clapping his hands. "Playin' Poker with the Joker. Ha!" He picked up his hand of cards again, wiping a tear from his eye with the palm of his hand. "Oh, fuck," he sighed, still smiling away. "You managed to give me another shit hand, Tally." Tally shrugged, silent. White laid down three cards. "Three, Tally," he said. Tally handed him three cards.

White looked down at his hand, and then looked up at Cobblepot. "What've you got?" he asked.

Cobblepot shrugged, setting his cards down. "Straight," he said with a grin at the irony. "King, Queen, Jack, Ten, Nine."

"Huh," grunted White. He set down his cards. "Got a Flush," he said. "Look at them Spades."

Napier grinned at his hand, then took four cards from his hand and lay them down face-up on the table. "Four uva kind," he said, indicating the Aces.

Cobblepot and White both looked over in shock. Then White looked back up at Napier. "You cheated," he said.

"Impossible," countered Cobblepot. "Tally and I have been watching him very closely. There's no way he could have used his own cards." He indicated for Tally to push the pile of money towards Napier, which he did wordlessly.

Napier picked up the money, folding it, and put it in his pocket, then cleared his throat, pushing his chair away from the table and setting his hand down on it, face-down. "I gotta piss," he mumbled, getting unsteadily to his feet. He paused a moment, leaning on the table, then turned and staggered towards the door.

White watched Napier leave. He paused, then looked over at Napier's hand, which still lay on the table, and at the one last card, which remained face-down on the table. "Let's turn over his last card, see what he's got," he said, chomping on his cigar.

Cobblepot glanced over at Napier's cards, then shook his head. "We should wait until he gets back," he said.

White scoffed. "He's plastered," he said gruffly. "He ain't _comin'_ back. He'll prob'ly pass out in there or something." He stared at Cobblepot for a long moment, then leaned forward and grabbed Napier's cards. "I'm turnin' 'em over," he said, flipping the card so it lay face-up on the table. White blanched, but Cobblepot smiled knowingly at the sight of the card.

The last card was a Joker.

. . .

It wasn't really _surprising_ that the Lounge was so packed. At least, not to Jeanette. Sure, it was a Friday, and there were _plenty_ of upper-crust people here on dates and social get-togethers.

She smiled and rolled her eyes, remembering her own reason for coming. Not exactly a "social get-together".

She stood at the door for a few minutes, getting her bearings and adjusting to the dim lights and smoke in the place. First order of business: find Ozzie, since he was the one who'd promised her the Joker would be here. She went over to the bar, where Maggie was seated in her usual spot. The woman was happy enough to tell Jeanette that Os was busy wasting money on a card game upstairs; Jeanette grinned and thanked her, and headed up the stairs in the back.

"_Oz_zie," she said, friendly enough, as she strode into the upstairs room. She spared a half-interested glance at the man she didn't know sitting across from Os, then proceeded to ignore him. "So. You made me a promise earlier."

Cobblepot looked up as soon as he heard Jeanette's voice, and a grin crossed his face. "My dear," he said with a smile, "you have no idea how insanely happy you've made me. Aaand…" He reached into his breast pocket and retrieved the Joker card, which he showed to Jeanette. "Just left it, not ten minutes ago," he said, taking a satisfied drag of his cigarette. "Came in here himself, sat down at the table, and played a hand of cards. Took the money with him, too."

Cobblepot set the card down in front of her so she could look at it further if she pleased. White sneered. "Took all that damn money, the cheatin' son of a bitch," he muttered, looking through the hand Tally had dealt him and tossing another fold of cash onto the table.

"Oh, stop complaining, Warren," Cobblepot said. "It was pocket change and you know it. Besides, the poor man probably needed it a lot more than you do."

White snorted. "Probably just gonna go blow it all on _booze,_" he scoffed, taking his Cuban cigar from his mouth and exhaling thick smoke.

Cobblepot turned back to Jeanette and indicated White. "Warren White, an associate of mine," he said. "He's a big name in the Underground, goes by the name _Great White._ At the moment he's into… dog fighting, was it, Warren?"

"Damn straight it was," White nodded.

"Always something different," Cobblepot chuckled. "Last time it was printing fake money."

"Hey, that was a good investment," countered White.

"Until the Gotham PD started marking all the legitimate bills," Cobblepot said with a knowing grin. He brought the cigarette back to his lips and turned back to Jeanette. "But anyways, darling," he went on, "that Joker fellow of yours was in here just a bit ago. He actually came in with something that _you,_ I thought, would find _especially_ interesting." He glanced over at White, who was watching them intently, then back at Jeanette. "I'll show it to you later," he said.

"They call him the Joker for a reason," White said bitterly, returning the cigar to his mouth. "Man's a fuckin'_ joke._"

"He's not a _joke,_ White," said Cobblepot stiffly. "And you'd best watch yourself, after that display you made. He's probably not very pleased with you as it is."

"Eh, fuck 'im," White said, laying down two cards. "He's prob'ly too drunk to remember any of this anyways."

"Oh, right, dear," Cobblepot turned back to Jeanette. "He left a bit ago to take a trip to the bathroom… he hasn't come back, so I assume either he's left or he's returned to the bar." He took a deep breath, looking at his hand. "If you want my guess, I'd say the bar is probably your best bet," he told her.

He looked up at her again with an odd smile. "If you don't mind me asking, dearest," he said, "what exactly is your interest in this Joker character? And don't say _generic,_" he added knowingly. "Because I know you better than that." He brought the cigarette to his mouth, took a breath, and then let the smoke out slowly. "Nothing to do with matters of the heart, I hope?" he asked slowly.

There was a pause, then Cobblepot looked back at his cards. "Oh, pish-posh, it's none of my business anyways," he said. "Go find your friend, luv. And give him my regards." He set down two cards on the table. "Lord knows I need all the good words with him I can get," he added with a sigh.

Jeanette picked up the card and held it up the light as if she was trying to determine if it was real. That _had_ to be it. Ozzie wouldn't lie to her just for sport...probably. "Right..." she murmured, setting it back down on the table. Then she looked at White.

The nickname Os gave her was vaguely familiar. From what she'd heard, she was inclined to think that Great White was a bit of a joke. She humored the guy, smiling and nodding at him. "Dogs?" she asked, in a politely interested tone that covered deep-seeded impatience. "Didn't know they were the big thing nowadays. I'll just stick with my guns." She almost laughed at her own joke, but instead turned to Ozzie.

She wondered what Napier could have brought in that she'd find interesting, but brushed the thought away. She had more important things to take care of at the moment. "Thank you, Os. I owe you." She flinched a bit at the last part, and added hurriedly, "Don't take that too literally." If she knew him, he'd _really_ take the words to heart, and she didn't feel like paying a courtesy fee every time she bought a new tool from the guy.

Ozzie's last question she ignored entirely. He didn't need to know, and it wasn't something she felt like sharing with the world. And, by White's attentive gaze, he'd find some way to use the information; he was just that type. So she simply sighed and headed back downstairs.


	35. Chapter ThirtyFour

"How do I look, Mommie?" Jeannie Rose held up the end of the dress as she twirled in it. "Do I look pretty like you?" She looked over at her reflection in the bedroom mirror, smiling away at her appearance.

Kitty smiled, wiping the remnants of tears from her eyes as she watched her daughter. "You look beautiful, baby," she said faintly. Jeannie Rose giggled, then dove for the bag to pull out another outfit to try on. Kitty sighed, looking away at her own reflection in the mirror. Her face was pale, making her pink lips stand out, and her eyes were still somewhat red from crying. She gently put a hand to her hair, then let the hand fall back to her lap.

"Mommie, look at me!"

Kitty looked back over at her daughter, who was wearing another outfit Jeanette had purchased for Kitty, and which was also far too big for her. Kitty smiled. "You look…" she began to say, but then a sound made her look up. Someone was knocking on the door. She looked back at Jeannie Rose, who was looking just as confused. "Stay here, baby," Kitty said, getting up from the bed. Jeannie Rose watched her go, but did as she was told.

Kitty started to go, but then turned back to her daughter. "Baby," she said quietly, "if Mommie isn't back in three minutes, hide." Jeannie Rose looked scared, but she nodded. Kitty nodded too, then stood, took a deep breath, and turned back towards the way she had been heading.

Kitty moved into the front room of the house, and quietly padded over to the door. She paused, hesitant to say anything. Then the knocking repeated itself. Kitty put her ear up to the door. "Who is it?" she asked.

"Cab service for Kitty," answered the person outside.

Kitty frowned, looking over at the bills sitting on the counter by the door, then turned back to the door. "Did Jeanette send you?" she asked.

"Yes," answered the person on the other side of the door. "Are you Kitty?"

Kitty paused again, then picked up the money and tried to fix an amiable expression on her face. She turned back to the door, holding the money in plain sight, and opened the door. The smile instantly faded from her face as soon as she opened the door.

"Ready to go?" Crane asked with a grin.

. . .

Thomas buried his head in the crook of his arm.

It wasn't unusual for him to be drunk. He found that the pleasant buzz that accompanied a drinking binge did a damn good job of washing away his usual melancholy. Plus, the little episode he'd had at the police station was something he didn't mind forgetting.

Gordon "hadn't been there", the officers said. He was off on a break. It was all shit, and Thomas had told them so; he threatened and bribed them, using every trick he'd ever learned in the media business, but they absolutely refused to let him see Gordon - they must have known who he was. So he left, knowing full well that he was as good as fired if he didn't get that story. And so he didn't return to work; he headed straight for the Iceberg Lounge for a few drinks.

He sighed heavily and watched two women nearby. The one had been sitting at the bar since he'd first gotten there; the other was a _fox_. He grinned lazily at her, but she seemed to have her mind set on something else, so he rested his forehead back on the cool countertop. His fingers trailed along the outside of the cup, and then he looked up at the woman still there. Maggie, the other lady had called her.

"Y'know..." he slurred. "Y'know, it _sucks_ being in th'news. Y'gotta...gotta _work_ so damn hard, amIright?" He laughed and hiccuped, then rested his head back on his forearm. "_Sucks..._" he repeated for emphasis. Somehow, his thoughts turned suddenly to Emily, and his eyes watered. "Goddamn police," he spat, then took a shaky drink, spilling a good amount of the liquor down his front. "Damn," he said, rubbing halfheartedly at his shirt.

"Hmm," Maggie nodded, cleaning a glass. Since Os had taken Tally upstairs to deal cards, she had been put in charge of the bar. She prided herself on her barkeeping skills; she considered herself a better bartender than Tally, because Tally just did as he was told, but Maggie actually cared for her patrons. If someone seemed to be getting a little too much for them to handle, she would not give them any more to drink. She was motherly in that way, and sometimes had found herself wondering why she had not had any children. Then, she reasoned, she still had plenty of time left if she finally decided to pursue that dream.

"It does seem like it would be a tough job," she said, agreeing with Thomas. The poor man, she thought. He had come in, sat down at the bar, and instantly started ordering hard liquor. A hard day at work, she told herself, and it seemed she had been right. "I've never really had any experience working in the media. But I can see that it can be a tough job." She nodded, setting the glass down on the counter. She had to polish every glass until it shone; otherwise it bothered her.

"Pft," Selina said, taking her cigarette away from her red lips and exhaling smoke. "It's not all _that_ hard. Just a little headache, constantly being in the spotlight…" She put a hand to her hair, making sure it was still styled just right. "You get used to it after a while," she said with a disdainful sigh.

Maggie opened her mouth to say something when her attention was drawn to someone coming to sit at the bar between Thomas and Selina. Napier looked up at her and frowned slightly. "I know you," he said.

Maggie hesitated, then nodded. "I got Os for you," she said, picking up the glass she had been cleaning before and starting to clean it again.

"Yeah," Napier said with a lopsided grin. "Thass'it." He hesitated, then said, "But, since you're here now, I'll have a rum n' Coke, on th' rocks." He watched Maggie for a moment, then turned to look at Selina. He grinned at her, then, quirking a half-grin and raising an eyebrow at her, he growled seductively in her direction.

Selina looked up at the unwanted attention, frowning deeply in disgust. "_What?_" she asked curtly.

Napier grinned at her. "Whass'new, pussycat?" he asked. "You wanna come back t' my place? Maybe you wanna check out my…" He looked her up and down once. "…Scratching post?"

Selina scoffed. "You're disgusting," she told him, then got up and walked away.

Napier paused a moment, then looked up as Maggie set his drink in front of him with a disapproving look. He frowned slightly. "What?" he asked, almost as curtly as Selina had asked the same question of him. Maggie shrugged and looked away.

Napier picked up his glass, took a sip, and then looked over at Thomas. A slight frown creased his face. "Bad day?" he asked. He looked back at his glass, paused, then took another drink. "We all have 'em sometimes," he said. "But fuck it all. You jus'… gotta take th' good with th' bad. N'… maybe wunna these days…" He took another drink. "We'll all fuckin'… wind up in Arkham."

Jeanette emerged from the stairwell and immediately locked on to her target. Her blood pressure cranked up a few notches. _Finally._ She walked over, patted his back, and leaned down to smile winningly in his face.

"Long time no see, _Jack_."

Then she turned to Maggie. "Thanks, Mags. Grab me a sea breeze, will you?"

Thomas nodded dully along with whatever the people around him were saying. He wasn't in the mood to talk. Even if Maggie was being nice, and Selina was being...

His eyes sank shut for a moment, and his head lolled forward until it hit the countertop. The thud seemed to shake him awake, and he looked around with startled, but still hazy, eyes. He shook his head at himself with a lazy chuckle, and tossed the rest of his drink down his throat.

Maggie half-smiled politely at the newcomer, then started mixing up the drink. It was not a drink that was usually ordered, but Os had taught her how to make it especially for Jeanette, since it was Jeanette's favourite drink. She picked up the cleanest glass and started mixing the drink in it, watching Jeanette as she interacted with the well-dressed drunk who had just taken a seat a few moments earlier.

Napier looked up at the familiar voice and found himself looking into the face of Jeanette Rossini. "Wha' th'…" he said, frowning. He set his drink down heavily on the counter and stared at her. "Jeanette fuckin' Rossini," he said heavily. "What're you doin' here? I mean…" He grinned slightly. "I haven' seen you in… days. Iss'been… shit, almos' a week since I las' saw you. N'… you tol' me t' stop drinkin', n' I tried, but…" He chuckled bitterly. "Lotta good yer advice did me," he said. "I don' listen t' nobody."

He picked up his drink again, taking a swig of it, then watched as Maggie set the drink down in front of Jeanette. He paused a moment. "Y'told me t' stop… tha'was th' same night you… tol' me you'd leave yer new address on the counter." He paused again, holding his glass, then looked back up at her. "Then you din'," he said, some kind of slow realization dawning on him.

He hesitated again, wetting his lips, then turned to her again. "You got th' nerve, t' come down 'ere while I'm here," he slurred, "n' come up t' me, n' call me that…" He wavered. "You never… you din'… an' now…" He paused, trying to collect his thoughts, then turned back to his drink. "Whaddya want?" he finally asked, sharply.

"You in the mood for a good story?" Jeanette laughed bitterly, taking her drink. She'd expected him to be upset. Mad, even. It didn't mean it was justified. She took her first drink, which would probably also be her last. She needed to focus. "Then listen up."

"Let's say, one night, that some poor, innocent woman goes out for a run. And she's too _stupid_" - she set her glass down with a little more force than necessary - "to realize that this is goddamn _Gotham City._ So she gets beaten up, and kidnapped. And let's say...let's say that she meets a _certain person_ who a _certain guy_ might be interested in."

She sighed and looked out at the diners. "You worked with a guy named Crane a while back." It wasn't a question. "Well, guess who I ran into this week. And guess who _he'd_ run into, a while back?"

She turned back to face Napier and hoped he wasn't too drunk to listen. "Does the name...'Kitty' ring a bell?"

Napier looked up and stared at Jeanette for a long moment, his mouth hanging slightly open, wavering, holding her in his focus. "What?" he asked, unbelieving. He looked away, his brow furrowing. "Kitty is… still alive?" His eyes darted across the ground as he tried to process the thought. "Kitty is…?" He paused for a long moment, then he slowly shook his head. "Kitty…" he said, looking at the ground. Then he looked back up at Jeanette, his jaw locked, his brow furrowed in a dark frown. "Don' fuck withme," he slurred harshly.

"I dunno what kinda sick pleasure you get outta messin' withmy mind," he said, "but I draw th' line at Kitty. You c'n say whatever other shit you want, but… why wouldja say sunthin' so cruel?" He was getting worked up now. "I mean, sayin' you'll leave yer new address fer me n' then never comin' back, tha'was mean, but… sayin' Kitty's still alive… Tha's…" His breathing quickened as he tried to find the words to say, and his expression darkened into one of rage. "Tha's…" His dark eyes searched the ground again, as if the words to say were written there. Then his eyes flicked back to her face. "Why would you say that?!" he demanded.

"Why wouldja tell me that?! Izz'at yer idea uva sick joke?! What, are you playin' 'fuck with Jack while he's wasted'? Izz'at yer new game?!" He looked away then, wetting his lips. "No, iss'not a new game at all," he spat. "You've been playin' it fer a while, now." He looked back at her. "Lessay things we don' mean t' Jack while he's wasted, n' let 'im realize we're lying when he'ssober again. If he's _ever_ sober, ha, ha. I'll leave my new address on th' kitchen table, Jack. Yer wife is still alive, Jack. JUS' LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!"

Napier turned away, gritting his teeth, his face split in a tearful grimace as he tried to hold himself back from crying. "Why would you say that?" he choked, putting his hand to his face. "Kitty's dead… I saw her die…" He shook his head as a tear trickled down his cheek, dipping in the gashes of his jagged scars. "Kitty's dead… she's dead…"

He took a deep breath, putting his other hand to his face and leaning his elbows on the counter as two more tears rolled down. Then he turned to her, the angry tears shining on his face. "Look at what I've b'come b'cause uv'er!" he shouted, indicating himself. "Iwas never this way b'fore! Lookit me! I'ma clown! I'ma drunk!" He sobbed, closing his eyes and putting a hand to his face. "Look at me…" he moaned, the tears falling freely down his cheeks now. "_Look_ at me…"

He turned away from her, sobbing into his hands. "Why would you say that?" he asked, more quietly.

He was _crying?_

Jeanette averted her eyes, giving him that small dignity. This was just bizarre. She'd expected anger, fury, maybe even physical violence, but not _this_. It was stupid, it was pathetic, it was uncharacteristic...

It was...sad.

She backed up a step, frowning and looking away. If it had been anyone else, or if _she_ was a different person, she might have put her hand on his shoulder, or given him a hug; there wasn't a chance in hell of that with Napier. Then she spoke slowly, still searching for what to say. "I don't believe in any god, so I don't know what to swear on that Kitty's still alive. I got her away from Crane, and she's back at my place with..." She stopped short. News of Jeannie Rose probably wouldn't be very welcome when he was in this state. "The reason I didn't leave the address was because Crane got to me. He's got some thug going around with him. I swear I wasn't lying when I told you I'd leave the address."

She scowled and looked away, the bit of hurt she felt showing on her face. "And I'm not that sick of a person..." she muttered, mostly to herself.

Napier stared at her for a long moment. Then he sniffed, wiping at his eyes with the palm of his hand, clearing away his sudden burst of emotion. He coughed, taking a drink, then set down his glass and exhaled deeply. "Iss'jus' too much," he said quietly.

He swallowed, closing his eyes, then opened them again and looked at her. "I don' think yer th' one tryin' t' do it… but Crane… he'ssgot a sick sense uv humour." He looked down at his glass, his fingers playing around the edge of it, then picked it up and took a drink. He set the glass back down on the counter, sighing. "He'd take some kind uv pleasure in jus' sayin' it. Fakin' you out, n' you fakin' me out in turn…"

Napier paused suddenly, and looked up at her. "Wait, if Kitty's there…" His dark eyes darted away to the floor, and his brow furrowed, his expression darkening. "If Kitty…" he said, quieter. He looked up at Jeanette again. "Then she must have my son with her," he finally said. He hesitated, then shook his head. "No," he said, picking up his drink and shaking the ice slightly. "No, they said the baby din' make it… jus'… even if iss'jus' Kitty…"

He closed his eyes, putting his drink to his forehead. "My son…" he whispered.

He stayed that way for a moment. Then he sighed, taking his glass away from his forehead, and stared for a long time at his drink. Then, his features darkening into a disgusted frown, he shattered the glass against the counter. Maggie looked up in shock at the noise, but Napier ignored her, his eyes returning to Jeanette. He pointed at her, his expression dark. "If Kitty's alive," he told her, "then I wanna see 'er. Take me back t' yer apartment, n' show 'er t' me."

Napier sniffed, then looked up at Maggie. He pulled a crumpled hundred from his pocket and tossed it onto the counter in front of her. "Mine an' hers," he said, indicating Jeanette. "Keep th' change." Then, pausing, he turned back to Thomas. He stared at him for a moment, then cleared his throat. "You seem like an okay guy," he said. "Nex'time you wanna go out drinkin', juss'give me a call." He pulled a card from inside his suit jacket and tucked it into Thomas' breast pocket. "There's my card," he said, patting Thomas' pocket.

Napier nodded to himself, then got up from his barstool, caught his balance, and looked back at Jeanette. "We goin', er what?" he asked.

Napier was slowly becoming more coherent, and Jeanette couldn't figure out if that was a good or a bad thing. From his comments about his "son", she was getting a feeling of foreboding about it. How would he react to Jeannie Rose? However he did, she hoped that she'd be prepared for it.

No, she hoped that _Kitty_ would be prepared for it.

"Think it's smart, giving that guy your card?" she asked, leading the way out of the Lounge. Then she re-thought it. "Oh, whatever." She hailed another cab and eyed Napier carefully. _Please, please, let this work out okay,_ she hoped, not sure who she was asking.

"Psh," Napier said, following Jeanette, trying to keep steady in his gait, tucking his hands into his pockets for balance, "he's an okay guy. Iss'okay, you dun'need t' worry 'bout me. I c'n take careuv myself." He grinned at this. "I'mma big boy," he told her, "I dun'need my mommie to watch me anymore." He pulled a hand from his pocket, pushing aside a swatch of greenish hair that had fallen in one of his eyes, then put his hand back in his pocket.

Hopefully Kitty would not react negatively to him. He had not seen her in five years, and he was sure she thought he was as dead as he thought she had been. Perhaps she would not be surprised to see him like this; he seemed to remember that it had not exactly been a rare occurrence for him to come home late at night in a similar condition, but he kept his mouth shut as Jeanette led him back to her apartment.

Napier checked his appearance in the cab window, and fixed what he could make out in the blurred, shadowy reflection of his face. He wanted to look as good as he possibly could for his wife. He thanked whatever luck he had that he had washed his hair and decided to wear this nice business suit, for whatever superficial reason he had actually done it. At least Kitty would not have to see her husband in all his clownish glory just yet.

That would come soon enough, he told himself, combing his bangs to the side in the reflection of an apartment window as they exited the cab. The Joker would not, could not, just magically disappear. And if Kitty did not like what her husband had become in her absence, then perhaps they could come to some kind of understanding. Otherwise…

He followed her into the building, and looked up as Jeanette stopped in front of one of the doors. He had not been paying much attention to where they were going, but he was glad they had arrived. He felt dizzy from walking, he had been concentrating so hard on keeping his balance. He saw as she looked back at him, and he gave her a straight, noncommittal expression, then watched as she opened the apartment door and called out his wife's name. He took a step forward, then paused at the door, taking a deep, settling breath. There were butterflies in his stomach, a lump in his throat, and his pulse had quickened to an unhealthy speed. He exhaled deeply, then looked up and followed Jeanette inside the apartment.

The moment of truth came all too soon. She stared hesitantly at her apartment door, at Napier, then back at the door, and then opened it. She was so nervous that she didn't even notice how the lock wasn't engaged. "Kitty?"

Napier paused as soon as he got inside the door, looking around. It was not quite as nice or posh as the hotel she had previously inhabited, but he could not complain. It was certainly nicer than the apartment he had been living in for the past few days. Speaking of which, he would have to move out of there soon… someone would certainly become curious when the nurse did not show up for work three days in a row, and would come see if something was wrong. He would have to get his things and relocate, but that was not really the issue at hand at the moment. He stood eagerly, tensely, listening intently for the sound of Kitty's voice, or anything that would assure him that his wife was really alive.

None came.

Napier hesitated, then looked over at Jeanette. "Well?" he said, perhaps a bit too harshly, "Where is she?" He took a step forward, pulling his hands from his pockets. "She isn't here, is she?" he asked, his brow furrowing. He took a deep breath, his breathing and pulse starting to quicken. "She's not here," he said. "She never was here, was she? She was never here at all!"

He turned, looking around at the apartment, then picked up a lamp sitting on a nearby table and smashed it against the floor. "You wanted me to trust you, you told me she was alive, and then you do this to me!" he exclaimed. "You jus' wanted t' get me back to yer apartment while I was like this. You jus' wanted me alone, din' you?" He moved forward into the room, grabbing her mirror and smashing it against the floor as well. "Well, how do you like me now?!" he shouted. "You still want some alone time with me?! Huh?!"

He moved to her couch and started ripping the cushions off of it, tossing them around the room. "You wanna take off your clothes, I'll take off mine, an' we'll jus' forget all about everything, huh?! Iss'at what you want?!" He overturned the coffee table, breaking what had been sitting on top of it. "Or didja jus' want th' satisfaction of getting back at me fer tryin' t' force myself on you?!" He picked up the book she had been reading earlier and, opening it, ripped out an entire chunk of pages, scattering them. Then he turned back to her again. "Why would you do that to me?" he asked, totally winded.

He stared at her for a long moment, then, exhausted, he fell back onto the cushionless couch and, with a heavy sigh, leaned his head back and put his arm across his eyes. "Fuck," he mumbled, breathless.

Jeanette went numb when she realized what was wrong. She looked down to find her hands shaking. Interesting. Then she stepped forward and smacked Napier full in the face.

"Shut up." She seemed to like the sound of the words, so she repeated them, louder. "Shut _up._ Why the fuck would I do that?" She ignored for the moment the fact that she'd reduced herself to using coarse language, and started yelling. "Not everyone's out for a good fuck. Not everyone likes to play psychological games with people, just to screw with them and get some kicks. Shit, I'm _not that kind of person._"

The rational part of her realized why she was so angry. Kitty had been kidnapped again, she knew it. The woman had been snatched out right under her nose, and she hadn't done a fucking thing about it. Some professional she was. Unfortunately, the irrational part of her decided that she couldn't handle that; she rammed her fists into the wall.

"Can you stop thinking about yourself for two fucking _seconds_? Is it _possible_?" She grabbed the book that he'd dropped and threw it at the window; it broke through with a crash. Well, that was that. She'd have to be moving out tomorrow. But that didn't matter, she had a goal now.

Find Crane, and kill him in the most painful, prolonged way possible.

She leaned against the wall and began laughing hysterically, burying her face in her hands and sinking down to the floor, tears mixed in with her crazy smile. "Y-you'd...you'd better start thinking about good ways to kill that goddamn son of a bitch," she told Napier through hiccups. "Because, at this point, I can't think of a fucking _thing_, and shooting him would be just too goddamn merciful."

Napier looked up in surprise at being struck. Of course, this was Jeanette he was dealing with, and she did not take any shit from anyone, even him. She was tough, even though both of them had been through enough at the hands of the other to make anyone even slightly sane want to turn and run away. Then again, he reasoned, he did not know about her, but he knew that he was _not_ even slightly sane. But he did not really care at this point. All he realized was that she was sitting there, talking about killing Crane...

But she was _crying_.

He paused. He had broken down in front of her before, so it was almost an even turning of the tide, but he had never expected to see her like this, so... raw. He took a deep breath, looking away. Then he pushed himself up off the couch. "Jeanette," he said, his voice thick. "I have… sunthin' I need t' tell you… iss'real import'nt."

He looked up at her, trying to keep her in focus, and wet his lips, thinking over his words. "I have…" he began, but paused, unsure of how to go on. He had to word it carefully, or else she would lash out at him, or worse, laugh at him. He wet his lips again, trying to decide how to state it to her. "I have… a problem." He leaned against the couch, staring at her, holding himself upright. "I have… a self-control problem."

Instantly a weight was lifted from his shoulders. It felt good to get it out there. Now that he had breached the most difficult barrier, he felt he could almost speak candidly. "I have a big problem with…" He paused, swallowing, looking at her. "…Killing." He looked away, considering it, wetting his lips. Then he looked back at her. "I can'… _stop_ m'self," he explained. "I see th' opportun'ty, n'… I jus' gotta _do_ it. I see it set up so perf'ctly, n'… I jus' can' say _no._" He looked away. "I can' stop m'self," he repeated, his dark eyes searching the floor.

Then he looked back up at her. "Iss'like, I kill one person, n' then… I set off sunthin', n'… I jus' gotta kill someone else. An' then I see th' opportun'ty… n'… I jus' kill 'em." He looked at the floor again, moistening his palate and shaking his head slowly. "No… consid'ration fer fam'ly, er…" he paused, unsure of where he was going with his statement, then shrugged. "Ionno," he said. "Bu'the probl'miz, I don' feel bad fer doin' it afterw'rds. I see th' dead body, n' I jus'… don' care. Iss'jus' there, y'know, n'… I don' _care._"

He wet his lips, his dark eyes straying. "I've tried t' stop m'self, sure," he mumbled. He looked up at her then. "Wi'this." He indicated himself, and a slightly embarrassed half-grin quirked at the corner of his mouth, but it soon disappeared. "But it doesn' work atall. An' iss'only gettin' worse." He paused. "Th' killing," he clarified. He cleared his throat, then went on, "I don' even know where sum'a th' ideas I have come from, 'cause… I _never_ woulda thought'a them jus' a couple years ago. N' I know I'm not crazy." He chuckled languidly at this. "No… I'm _not,_" he mumbled, wetting his lips.

"Atfirst," he continued, taking a wary step away from the couch towards her. He paused, wavering for a moment, then caught his balance and looked back up at her, wetting his lips. "Atfirst," he said again, "I was tryin' t' drown my mem'ries 'f Kitty… bu'then, I was tryin' t' stop m'self from killin'… but nunuvit worked. I jus' kep' killing, n' memories 'f Kitty kep' comin' back…" He paused, looking up at her. "An' th' drinking jus' got worse… iss'like th' killing… I have one, I gotta have another. Iss'like…" He paused again, considering how to word it. "I'm addicted t' killing."

He frowned, turning his face away. "I said I would never b'come addicted again," he said, more to himself than to her. "I… _said._"

He paused, then looked up at her with sad, dark eyes. "I've had probl'ms with addiction my whole life," he explained. "I'm not… very smart, n'… I don' realize I'm overdoing sunthin' until… I can' stop m'self. 'Til someone comes n' tells me, Jack, you have a probl'm." He smirked then, a bitter, reminiscing kind of smirk. "Though I… us'lly don' take too kindly t' people tellin' me that," he slurred. "I'm not… real good at admitting I hav'uh probl'm."

He took another unsure step towards her. "But I'm also not real good at remedying my probl'ms. Like…" He sighed, then indicated himself again, wetting his lips and wavering slightly. "Tryin' t' stop th' killing problem by drinking. Or… tryin' t' stop th' drinking problem with drugs." He paused, considering his last statement. "Tha' din' work at _all,_" he said, quieter. "Tha'jus'… made th' probl'm much worse."

He looked up at her, hesitated, and then moved towards her again. "I don' wanna be an alc'holic," he told her, shaking his head. "I already went through that once, n'… I don' wanna go through it again." He wet his lips, looking away. "'Cause I don' have… anyone t' s'port me," he said, a bit quieter. "An' alc'holics with no one are… the saddes' people in the world."

He shook his head slowly, his eyes resting on the floor. Then he looked back up at her. He paused, then took another step towards her. He now stood directly before her, and he stared down into her face, his dark eyes searching her features, an odd, slightly lost expression on his face. He hesitated, staring at her, and then asked, "C'n I… kiss you?"

Jeanette wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She couldn't _believe_ she'd started crying. She hadn't done that since..._years_ ago, at least. But she was tired, and she was upset, and angry as hell...

Not to mention her feelings about Napier's so-called "addiction." She stared down at her hands, sitting on her knees. If killing people was a problem, then she was one screwed-up person. She'd never _thought_ it was; death came sooner or later, and in _her_ opinion, she was just putting people out of a little extra misery. They were all mercy killings, in a way. Plus, the way she did it was so clean. Just a single bullet, maybe a moment of pain, and then...nothing. She put a hand to her forehead, but couldn't tell which was hotter; she felt a little dizzy.

But more than anything, she just felt numb. Maybe it was better to just not think about it. Because somehow, by caring too much, her reputation and pride were now staked on a little slip of a woman who couldn't defend herself. _That's_ why she didn't care about people, she reminded herself. Because people never, _ever_ came through for her, and staking your happiness on something so risky was a poor move.

The apathy was still there when she looked up at Napier. "I'm...sorry." The words meant absolutely nothing, and she felt ashamed about saying them. That wasn't enough. She couldn't very well say yes, though; not after what happened the last time they were together. So she eventually got clumsily to her feet and wrapped her arms around his waist. "I'm so sorry..." she murmured again into his shoulder, working hard not to break into tears again and knowing full well that she was getting too emotionally involved.

Napier stared down at Jeanette for a long moment, then, hesitantly, he wrapped his arms around her as well. Then he closed his eyes and gently lowered his face to Jeanette's hair, breathing in her scent. It was different, but he could not say it was unpleasant. He held her a little closer to himself, his nose and mouth gently burying into her thick, dark hair, and sighed. "Don't," he said quietly. "Pity's never done me any good… Pity…" He frowned slightly. "I don'want pity," he said.

He pressed his cheek gently against her head. Her soft hair felt good against his scarred skin, and it sent chills down his spine to think how long it had been since he had last held a woman like this. But back then, he had not had those scars… "You're prob'ly embarrassed by me," he said quietly, his brow furrowing slightly. "I know I would be… if Iwuz working with someone who couldn' keep on th' wagon." He gently fingered the end of her ponytail. "I'm trying," he told her. "I'm trying… but iss'so hard."

He exhaled deeply, turning his face again so his nose and mouth buried into her hair. "I should go to bed," he said. "Maybe we c'n talk business when I get up in th' morning. Juss'…" He pulled away then, looking down at her. "Don' talk about Kitty anymore. 'Cause I dunno what I'd do…" His voice trailed off, and he sighed, looking away. "I don' know what I'd do," he said, more quietly.

Then he looked back at her. "I'm gonna go t' bed," he said, "but I don' want you sleeping on the couch tonight." He took a deep breath. "I want you t' sleep next t' me," he said. He swallowed, wetting his lips. "I won' touch you," he assured her. "I juss'… want you next t' me tonight." He watched her face, taking in her features as well as he could. "Please," he said quietly. "Juss' for one night… thass'all I want."

Jeanette breathed into the business suit that so obviously didn't belong to Napier. He smelled like a _person_, gritty and very real, not like those fake boys with their flowery cologne who were always chasing her around. It was very...grounding, she decided grudgingly. Her eyes closed comfortably.

Then she frowned as he pulled away. He didn't want to talk about Kitty. How the hell was she going to deal with _that_? She just had to convince him that she wasn't lying. Hopefully. And that could wait, as he said, until the morning.

She was suddenly very thankful that she hadn't told him about Jeannie Rose. Something told her news like that wouldn't have gone over well in his current state.

She looked up sharply, shocked by his request. What did he think she was, a...well...She looked away. The memory of the last time she'd seen Napier came immediately to mind; she was surprised to find no similarities between then and now. Even though he was still drunk, he was still thinking somewhat clearly. And it didn't seem to her that anything bad might happen.

In fact, the idea didn't bother her as much as it might, and probably should, have.

And why? Because maybe...maybe not everyone had to be hurt, she told herself, sighing and looking out the living room window at the dark skyline. Maybe it was okay to do something for another person. Maybe, just every once in a while, people should get what they need. Even in Gotham. Even in the sort of screwed-up world they lived in. She finally turned her face back to Napier, searching it for a moment before she answered in a quiet voice to match his. "Okay." She smiled halfheartedly, looking away again towards the couch. "It's better than sleeping on _that_ thing again."

"Mm," Napier replied, noncommittal. He took Jeanette's head in his hands and gently pressed his lips to her forehead, leaving them there for a long moment before relenting. Then he sighed, letting go of her and just looking down at her. "I'm sure you've heard this before," he said. "But… you're… beautiful."

He stared at her face for a long moment, then looked away. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm juss' saying everything that comes t' mind… I juss'…" He looked back at her, biting his lip. "I'm juss' saying everythin' wrong," he said, his voice flat. "Don'… don' mind me." He sniffed, looking around for the bedroom, and his brow furrowed slightly. "Iss'at it?" he asked, pointing towards it.

Napier cleared his throat, then looked back at Jeanette. "I'munna… go lie down," he told her. He gently brushed Jeanette's arm with his fingertips, and his hand brushed hers. He paused, letting his hand rest on hers, and looked down at her, hesitating for a moment. "Sorry," he finally said, quietly. He moved away from her, towards the bedroom, and paused in the doorway. He stared in at the bed, hesitating for a long moment, then staggered in and sat down on the bed. It was not as soft as the one in the hotel room, but it was still a nice bed.

He lay back, putting a hand to his forehead, and sighed heavily. "Y'know," he said, almost mumbling, "I don'… mean t' always be drawn t' you when I'm… y'know… like this." He cleared his throat, taking his hand away from his forehead, and folded his hands over his ribcage, pushing himself up into position on what he assumed was his side of the bed. "I'm sorry," he said, quieter. "But… even if you _did_ abandon me that once… I still… feel like…" He looked over towards the doorway. "You're the only one I c'n trust," he finished.

He exhaled heavily, watching Jeanette entering the room and crossing towards the bed. "It's stupid of me," he said, closing his eyes, his brow furrowing. "I shouldn'… put my trust in anyone, 'cause… people will juss'… turn on you." He opened his eyes again, staring at the ceiling. "Everyone you count on in this life, they'll all juss'…" He shook his head sadly. "Vanish," he said quietly. "They're never there when you need 'em most… When you… juss' can't stand t' do it on your own… but then… you hafto."

He turned to her, lying next to him on the bed, and stared at her for a long moment. He turned onto his side, resting his head on the pillow, just looking at her. "D'you know where I was?" he asked. "All that time… all those five years. D'you know where I was?" He wet his palate, then licked his lips and looked back at her. "I was in Arkham," he told her. "The night Kitty died, after they told me my wife and child were dead… I tried to kill myself."

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. "As soon as they released me from th' hospital, I went out an' shot up, tryin' t' OD… when that din' work, I went out n' got totally drunk. Tryin' t' drink myself t' death, or get myself knifed in a bar fight. Anything but this world." He opened his eyes, looking at her. "Well, I got knifed, all right," he said. He indicated his scars. "Somebody pinned me, took his knife… and cut me up." He exhaled, his dark eyes straying. "I started laughing hysterically… 'cause now I was one fucked up son of a bitch. Well, somebody called the cops to come get this drunk psycho who was bleedin' all over the place… an' they carted me off to Arkham. Laughin' all the way, they say. I don'… remember much about it."

He sniffed, shaking his head slightly. "An' thass'where I stayed," he said. "Fer five years. Inmates came an' inmates left, but Iwas always there. Then there was th' liberation, an' th' fear gas incident… Iwas wunna th' inmates they din' manage to catch afterwards." He looked back at her, his expression solemn. "An' thass'my story," he said. He exhaled deeply, staring at her. "Sorry it isn' as interesting as you prolly thought it would be… I'm juss'…"

He cleared his throat, turning back onto his back and staring up at the ceiling again. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

Jeanette drew away to the edge of the bed ever so slightly, turning towards the wall. So that was it. Or, at least, the best version of it that she'd get. Funny, how she got to hear it when he was _drunk_. God only knew if it was the real story.

She adjusted her dress (she'd _very_ briefly considered changing into pajamas, but decided that it was useless) and wondered again if she should be doing this. She couldn't afford to get too close to anyone. This was breaking every one of her rules. Was it worth it, to get back at Crane?

She snorted into the silence. Of course it was.

Finally, after a long silence, she spoke softly. "Don't do that." She faintly realized she'd said the same words earlier that night to Kitty. Damn irony. "Don't trust me," she finished in a murmur, before half-hugging her pillow and burying her face in it. She was only saying what both of them already knew. If it came down to it, would either one of them hesitate to turn on the other? If they were smart, the answer was a simple no.

She lay still like that for a moment, before reaching behind her for his hand. She enfolded it compassionately in her much smaller hand, then settled back into her pillow.

Napier frowned slightly as Jeanette took his hand, and turned his head to look at her. His gaze went to his hand in hers, then back to her face. Then he looked back up at the ceiling with a heavy sigh. "I don' care what you say," he told her. He swallowed. "I trust you." He looked back over at her again, staring at her. "And somewhere, deep down, beneath that cold exterior," he said with a slight, wry grin, "I think you trust me, too."

He smiled at her for a slight moment, then turned away, looking back up at the ceiling, and breathed deeply. "Y'never… think anything is gonna happen t'you," he said thoughtfully, "until… it happens. And then… it's like you knew it would happen all along." He frowned slightly. "Like… I always knew I was leading a charmed life, an' then… all of a sudden… it was taken away." He paused, then looked back at her. "Do you ever think about that?" he asked. "Do you ever… think about what you would do, if all you have… all you've come to know… if it was all just… taken away?"

He wet his lips, looking away again. "It's a grim thought," he said with a sigh. "I don'… know why I'm thinking about these things. I just…" He hesitated, then shifted so his body faced hers, even though she was turned away from him. He entwined his fingers with hers with the hand she held of his, and stared at her ponytail, then, with his free hand, began to gently toy with the end of it. "Iss'the kind of thing I think about when I'm…"

Napier paused again, stopping playing with her ponytail for a moment. A slight frown creased his face, and he absentmindedly traced his scars with the fingers of his free hand. He hesitated a moment, his dark eyes straying, and took a deep, steadying breath. "I should prolly juss'go t' sleep," he finally concluded.

Jeanette turned onto her back and stared at Napier for a moment with furrowed eyebrows then sighed sharply. "Assume what you want," she told him. "I don't trust...people. They're unreliable, they don't...help you." She eyed the ceiling. "And if you were smart you wouldn't trust me. I don't...I'm not..." She frowned, not sure what to say, so she just let it drop.

She considered his words for a minute, running her eyes over the ceiling. Then she laughed quietly. "I'd make it work," she said, more to herself than to Napier. She looked over at him. "That's...just how you'd have to manage it, right? Just...go with it." She'd never let anything happen that she didn't expect, anyways. She was in control of her life. Still, as he'd said, the thought was a grim one. She unconsciously rubbed her thumb against the palm of Napier's hand. It wouldn't happen, she told herself. She had too many safeties, too many backup plans.

Then she paused again with a frown. "Why the hell _would_ you trust me?" she asked frankly, turning her head back to him again. He wasn't lying about that, it was obvious; he'd told her the story of his scars, for god's sake. But when had she done anything trustworthy?

He chuckled at her statement, staring at the ceiling. "Yeah," he said, closing his eyes, "but both of us know I'm not very smart." He shook his head slightly, then sighed. "An' I think that's why I trust you," he finally said, his brow furrowing slightly. "Because… you try so hard not to have anyone rely on you, that…" He paused, trying to figure out what to say, then exhaled heavily and gave up. "Fuck it," he mumbled. "I dunno."

"It's better that way." Jeanette stared at the ceiling, thinking hard. "People can't...shouldn't trust each other. Not in this city." As if agreeing with her words, a police cruiser went screaming down the street outside the window, its bright lights illuminating the room for a moment. Jeanette relaxed her tensed muscles once it had passed.

Napier took a deep breath, flexing his back, then cleared his throat, letting out his breath in a long, settling exhale. "This all seems so surreal," he said, running his thumb over her fingers. He opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. "An' when we wake up, it'll all just be a forgotten figment of the past. We'll just be…" He closed his mouth, shaking his head, trying to find the words to describe their anomalous, symbiotic relationship. Then he shrugged. "Back to the way we were," he said with a sigh. "You'll be headstrong, independent Jeanette, and I'll be… stupid, psychotic Jack."

He paused a moment, frowning. He ran a hand through his strangely clean hair, thinking. "Why do we never really talk when we're just Jeanette and Jack?" he asked her. "Why are we always at each other's throats unless I'm…" He rested his hand on his chest again, drumming his fingers on his ribcage as he looked for a word. "Incapacitated?" he finally said. He glanced over at her, then looked up at the ceiling, a bitter smile starting to form on his mouth. "It's probably because it's the only time I'm _reasonable,_" he said.

Jeanette pulled her hand away from his and turned over to get some sleep. "Life wouldn't be as _interesting_ if we were friendly _all_ the time."

The smile soon faded from Napier's face, though, and it was replaced with a sad, worried frown. "I talk too much," he said in a low voice. "If anyone knew about my… problem… If Batman were to know… if _Crane_ were to know…" He shook his head. "You can't be a real human _and_ a symbol. You can't stand for normality and an extreme end of the spectrum at the same time. A sociopathic, homicidal murderer with a drinking problem and a soft side? Pft, never." He closed his eyes, turning his face away. "I'd be laughed out of Gotham," he said quietly.

Napier paused, then took a deep breath. "I'm going to get some sleep," he said, turning his face back to her. He stared at her for a long moment, then looked back up at the ceiling and closed his eyes. "In the morning," he said, "we kill Crane." Then a wry grin crossed his face. "After breakfast," he added.

Jeanette grinned at his joke, then shut her eyes to get to sleep.

Napier's eyes opened, and he stared up at the ceiling for a long moment. Then he turned his head, looking over at Jeanette, who he assumed had fallen asleep. He paused a moment, then turned onto his side and, very carefully, so as not to wake her up, he wrapped his arm around her slender form and pulled her body close to his, resting her back against his torso, her legs folded in front of his, nestling his face into her shoulder. He stayed that way for a long moment, then gently pressed his lips to her neck, paused, and then relented.

He watched her breathe for a time, then began to gently play with the end of her ponytail again. He had never considered a life after Kitty before; then again, he had been so intently fixated on not getting killed or raped while he had been staying in Arkham that he had not had time to think about much else. All thoughts of Kitty had been pushed to the back of his mind, and his survival instincts had taken over. Now that he was out, every memory of Kitty, every long-forgotten method of coping, had come flooding back to him, all at once.

Napier stopped playing with Jeanette's ponytail, just thinking. Then he looked away, his dark eyes travelling down Jeanette's form, and then back to her peaceful face. She had trusted him enough to return to him, even after what he had done – or tried to do – to her, and had trusted him enough to lie down beside him while he was in the same state he had been at the time of the incident. That was what it was, he realized – trust. There was no other word for it. He wondered why she was so insistent that she neither trusted anyone, nor wanted anyone to trust her, when really she had put her apparent full trust in _him,_ of all people: a dishonest, mentally instable inebriate.

He suddenly remembered the conversation he had heard her having with her father, that one night that he had tried to take advantage of her, and their whole trust issue had begun. He frowned slightly, watching her breathe. There were no unrequited mannerisms; everyone's quirks were the results of something they had done, or had been done to them. It suddenly all made sense, Jeanette's distrust of everyone, her unwillingness to be in any relationship that lasted longer than a night, or that involved any kind of commitment. He tucked a tendril of dark hair that had fallen out of place behind one of her ears.

Had someone broken Jeanette's heart in the past? It made sense, but he was not about to go into it. It was why she saw men as nothing but trouble, and he, the one person she could have had a good, non-sexual relationship with, had to ruin it by turning it into something she had never wanted it to be with his selfish, foolhardy actions. And now… now what did she see him as? If she was so insistent that there was no trust in their relationship… then what was it? He shook his head. It was too much for him to think about, and he knew that Jeanette was probably as bewildered by the complexity of their unusual relationship as he was, though she never let it show.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered. He rested his chin on Jeanette's shoulder, hesitated, and then sighed. "I dragged you into this," he told her quietly. "I shouldn't have done that. You don't deserve it." He frowned slightly for a moment. Those words seemed so familiar, for some strange reason... His dark eyes swept the room as he tried to place where he had heard them before. Then, with a deep exhale, he gave up trying and closed his eyes, and, after a moment, he finally fell asleep.

Jeannie Rose peeked out from behind a dress hanging up in the closet, watching the two people sleeping in what had been her mother's bed. One she recognized; it was Miss Jeanette. The other was a man, a _big_ man, whom she had never seen before. She slowly emerged from the closet, pushing her honey hair from her dark eyes and moving to the bed.

Jeannie Rose walked around Jeanette's side of the bed and stared up at her, just watching her. Miss Jeanette and the man, whoever he was, seemed to be good friends. Jeannie Rose looked around Jeanette to get a look at the man's face, and took a step back when she saw the macabre scars around his mouth. Instantly her gaze went back to Jeanette, and she reached up, taking hold of the end of her skirt.

"Miss Jeanette," she whispered, tugging lightly at the end of Jeanette's dress. "Miss Jeanette, wake up!" She hesitated, looking back up at the man, making sure she had not been loud enough to wake him. It was hard; he was so close to Jeanette that if she was loud enough to wake Miss Jeanette, the man might hear, too, and wake up. Jeannie Rose bit her lip, shuddering at the thought of what might happen if she were to wake the big man with the scars.

She paused a moment, staring at the two of them, then pulled herself up onto the bed. She sat down on the edge of the bed, looking between Jeanette and Napier, then, hesitantly, reached out a hand and, very carefully, traced the scars on the man's face. They formed a kind of lopsided, morbid grin, she realized, and quickly withdrew her hand so she would not wake him up. She hesitated, unsure of what to do, then looked back at Jeanette.

"Miss Jeanette," she said again, too quiet to be heard.

She waited for a moment, then sighed. She was tired, too, she realized. And besides, if Miss Jeanette were able to go to sleep, that must mean that everything that had to do with Jeannie Rose's mother must be all right. She decided that her mother was probably busy, and she would come in a little later.

Jeannie Rose yawned, putting a hand over her mouth, and looked back at Jeanette and the man with the scars. She weighed her options, but her eyes were getting heavy. Finally, with one last, wary look at the man, she lay down and curled up beside Jeanette, closing her eyes. If her mother were to come in, she would just pick her up and move her while she slept; Kitty had done it many times before. Jeannie Rose let out a quiet sigh, then put her thumb in her mouth, nestled down, and fell asleep.

She was sure everything would be all right in the morning. It usually was.


	36. Chapter ThirtyFive

Dent slid his arm around Shawn's shoulders, smiling over at him. He had not had any trouble finishing his meal, and, though Shawn had loosened up a bit around him during the course of the date, he was still being shy and somewhat awkward, as his usual. Dent had no idea what he could possibly do to get the younger man out of his shell, especially when he had such extravagant plans for the night to come. He checked his watch, then looked back at Shawn.

"That was certainly good, wasn't it?" he asked, grinning. "I suppose it wasn't as good as it could've been, but… there's not much to be done about that, now is there?" He let his fingers play onto Shawn's shoulder, then looked away, taking a deep breath. "Now, about your earlier question," he said, picking up his drink in his free hand and taking a sip. "Os and I go way back. We're old friends, knew each other long before I was Gotham's DA and he started up this nightclub… in fact," Dent said, indicating Shawn with the drink, "I helped him start up this place."

He looked around at the Lounge, letting his hand rest on Shawn's shoulder, and he moved a little closer to the younger man. He was getting quite comfortable, even if it was only a façade. If he did not think about Shawn being male, then it did not really bother him. Dent was good at warming up to people, since he had been elected to such a prestigious office, and he was turning on all his charms with this Shawn Palmer.

He looked up when he heard shouting over by the bar, and frowned at the sight. "Looks like a lover's quarrel," he said, setting down his drink. He grinned over at Shawn. "We won't be having any of those, will we?" he said, resting his forehead against Shawn's temple. He turned away again, picking up his drink and taking a sip. "Well, Shawn, I must say," he said with a satisfied sigh, "this has been the most enjoyable evening I've had in a while. And I think it's safe to say the same for you, too."

He smiled contentedly, letting his arm rest around Shawn's shoulders, then turned back to him. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable in any way, Shawn," he told him in a low voice. "But if you're willing, my place is just around the corner, and… I could call Garcia tomorrow and get him to give you a little leeway for coming in late to work." He grinned at Shawn. "But only if you want to," he told him. "Don't feel like I'm pressuring you in _any - way_."

Shawn was starting to get used to Dent's touchy-feeliness. In fact, he devoted himself to just enjoying those little moments, leaning his head against Dent's and letting him move closer without a second thought. He sighed as he realized their dinner was over, and slowly, carefully wiped his mouth with his napkin.

Then he frowned, confused. It was _great_ that Dent wanted to spend more time with him, and at a more private place than this club. As appreciative as Shawn was about the reservations, the place was a bit too...sketchy for him to be perfectly comfortable. What he didn't understand, though, was why it'd be necessary to call Garcia so that he could come in late to work.

Then something clicked in his naive brain, and he blushed flaming scarlet.

"O-oh." He looked down at his drink, rubbing his neck with a hand. _That's_ what he meant. It was true, Shawn had always imagined something like this happening, in his wildest, wildest dreams. But they were just dreams; he'd never bothered to think what he'd do in the situation. He should probably think this through. What the hell sort of consequences would there be?

He finally smiled boldly at Harvey. Screw consequences, this was something he _wanted_. And it wasn't often that he got the opportunity to do something he wanted. "O-okay."

Dent grinned at Shawn's hesitation, running his fingers through the younger man's hair. "Wonderful," he said. He looked away, raising his hand for the check. Then he turned back to Shawn. "Garcia isn't exactly my biggest fan at the moment, but I've got some dirty stuff on him that will make him back off with his tail between his legs, believe me," he told Shawn with a chuckle. "You could probably get the whole of tomorrow off, if you wanted… or you could go back to work." He leaned nearer to Shawn's ear and said in a low voice, "As for me, I always enjoy having breakfast in bed."

He grinned at Shawn, letting the implication sink in, then turned back as Maggie came over to their table and presented them with the tab. He took a look at it, exhaled, then handed it back to Maggie. "Give that to Os," he said. Maggie nodded, a little confused, and started to turn away. Then Dent added, "Oh, actually, tell him…" Maggie leaned down so her ear was next to Dent's lips, and he whispered something to her. She stood straight, looking slightly taken aback, then turned and walked away.

Dent glanced back at Shawn with a wry smile. "We should probably be going," he said, sliding his arm away from around Shawn's shoulders. "We've got a lot to do, and so little time to do it in." He checked his watch. "So, my place?" he said. Then he held up a hand. "Wait," he said, "let's leave it to chance." He pulled his lucky coin from his back pocket and showed it to Shawn. "Heads, we head back to my place," he said with a grin. "Tails, we part ways at the door." He flipped the coin, caught it, turned it over onto the back of his hand, then looked up at Shawn with a knowing smile. Then he removed his hand to reveal the coin. Heads.

"Shall we?" he said, smiling away and offering Shawn his arm. "My car's parked just outside."

Shawn couldn't help but grin at the thought of the mayor running scared. He really didn't like his boss; he knew that Garcia took advantage of him on a regular basis, but he was too much of a wuss to actually _do_ anything about it. Dent's offer was very kind. And, from the look on the face of the woman who'd given them their check, he'd be able to follow through. There were definitely benefits with having power in this city.

He then watched the coin flip warily. He wasn't sure how seriously to take this game of Harvey's; he was inclined to be serious about it, though, because if it came out tails...Thankfully, he didn't have to deal with his possibility. He silently thanked whatever had made this situation possible, and hesitantly interlocked his arm with Dent's. He was willing to take this plunge, and God only knew how it was going to turn out.

. . .

Crane and Kitty stared at one another. Neither said a word. Crane grinned. Kitty did not.

"You've changed clothes, I see," Crane commented. "You look nice." He looked around at the warehouse he had taken her to, rubbing his hands slowly together, and exhaled. "I apologize for the bleak ambience," he said, no trace of actual apology in his voice.

"What do you want with me?" Kitty asked frankly.

Crane looked back at her and his eyebrows lowered slightly, but the smile remained on his face. "You've become rather bolder since I last saw you," he said. His eyes strayed as he thought about it. Then he looked back at her. "New clothes seem to have given you a false sense of importance," he told her with a sigh.

"Why do you keep coming after me?" Kitty asked, slower, firmly. "Why can't you just leave me alone? Is this still about Jack Napier?"

"No," said Crane stiffly, the smile fading from his face, "it's not about Jack Napier. And you know it." Kitty was silent, her eyes straying. She bit her lip, taking hold of the edge of the new dress she wore. Crane stared at her, his eyes boring into her. "You know exactly what this is about," he told her quietly.

She paused, then shook her head. "You're wrong," she said. "You're wrong…"

"I'm not wrong. I know it, and you know it," he told her. "That nauseous feeling you've been having in the morning, those sudden pains… you know what it means as much as I do."

"You're wrong!" she exclaimed, looking up at him, her expression angry. "I'm just… unwell. It's happened before…"

"Five years ago?" Crane asked knowingly. Kitty looked away, silent. Crane stared at her for a long moment, the calculating grin frozen on his face. "Malachy," he finally said.

Kitty looked up at him then, frowning slightly. "What?" she asked.

"You heard me," Crane replied. "His name will be Malachy. Malachy Jonathan Crane."

"You think I'm going to keep it?" she asked, incredulous. "You're crazy."

Crane got up from his seat and instantly grabbed her throat with one hand, glaring down at her, his expression dark and hateful. Kitty stared up at him with wide, scared eyes. "I," he said slowly, his breath staggered, "am not crazy. And you," he brought his face closer to hers, "are going to keep that child, whether you like it… or not." He glared at her for a moment longer, then let go of her throat and turned away from her.

Kitty coughed, putting a hand to her throat, trying to catch her breath. "You're so convinced that it's going to be a boy," she said. She looked up at him, panting, her eyes slightly red. "What will you do if it's a girl?" she asked quietly, breathless.

Crane stopped, paused, and then turned to face her. "We'll just have to try again," he answered, deadpan.

"You can't do this, Crane, you can't keep me here," Kitty told him. "They're going to come looking for me, you'll see. They'll come!"

"Who?" Crane answered. "You're dead to the world, Kitty. Nobody knows you're still alive except for that Jeanette girl, and what can _she_ do?" He moved back to his seat, sat down, and leaned forward, staring into her eyes. "No one is going to look for you, Kitty," he told her. "For all certifiable purposes… you belong to _me_ now." He grinned at her, a terrible, mocking grin.

"Peachy?" he asked.

. . .

Bruce Wayne pulled into the driveway of Wayne Manor, and realized something was wrong when Alfred did not come to the door. He opened the door of Wayne Manor and let himself in, frowning, and hung his coat over his arm, looking around for Alfred. The manor was unusually quiet; unnaturally quiet, when he thought about it, and the silence made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He wondered if something had happened… He felt a slight chill run through his body, and pushed the thought from his mind.

Everyone was fine. He was just overreacting.

"Alfred?" he called. No response came. Wayne's frown deepened. Perhaps the butler had already gone to bed. He checked his Rolex. It was only eight-thirty, and Alfred was usually a night person. He swallowed, nervous, and started towards the bedroom he had designated for Jessica. Perhaps she would know if Alfred had gone out, or if something was wrong…

As soon as he entered the room, he knew that something was wrong.

Alfred sat on one side of the bed, facing the door, and he looked up as soon as Wayne appeared in the doorway. He said nothing, but his eyes were hollow, shocked, and his tears were stained with tears. In the chair opposite him sat Lucius Fox, his face in his hands. Wayne looked at Fox, then at Alfred again. Alfred sighed and looked at Fox.

"Lucius," he said quietly.

Fox looked up, and Alfred indicated towards Wayne. Fox hesitated, then turned to look at Wayne. Wayne stared at him for a long moment, and he stared back. Then Fox asked in a low, dangerous voice that he was trying to keep from shaking, "Where the hell were you?"

Wayne was taken aback. "I went to visit Olivia," he said, indicating behind him. "I told Alfred I was going out –"

"You left the house under Alfred's care?" Fox demanded, his voice rising. "You left my sister under the protection of one person, who didn't know what kind of horrors were out there, all day long?"

"Wait a minute," Wayne said, raising his hand, his brow furrowing. "What's going on?"

"What's going on?!" Fox shouted, getting up from his chair. "You want to know what's going on?! Alfred had no idea what was out there, and because you weren't here to protect my sister, she's now _dead!_" His hands were shaking with rage.

Wayne stared at him, shaken. "What?!" he asked.

"Did you not hear me?!" Fox demanded. "My sister is _dead_ because of you!"

Alfred looked up then, his hands clasped in front of his mouth. "He didn't know, Lucius," he said quietly. "He had no idea the Joker was on the loose."

"Wait, the Joker?!" Wayne asked, looking up at Alfred. He was numb with shock by now. He looked back at Fox's dark, furious expression, then at Alfred, then back at Fox. "The Joker…" He looked down, his thoughts spinning too fast to comprehend. Then he looked back up at Fox. "We have to get him," he said firmly.

"We have to think about Jessica's funeral first," Alfred said, getting to his feet as well. "It's only right. We should respect her, and all she's done for us, and for Gotham."

Wayne nodded, looking at Alfred, and then looked back at Fox, whose expression had softened slightly. "I'll pay for her funeral," he said quietly. "I want the best for her. Anything you think she would have wanted, I'll pay for it."

"No," said Fox, shaking his head, his expression darkening once more. "No, Mister Wayne, I am through with you, and I am through with this company." He looked up at Wayne, his breathing staggered, his jaw locked. "And if you intend for Batman to go on, you're going to have to do it without me." He glanced back at Jessica, still lying on the bed, looking peaceful, almost as if she had fallen asleep, then back at Wayne. "I don't want any more of your help," he told Wayne. "I'm sorry, Mister Wayne. But I'm getting out before I'm killed, too." And with that, he pushed past Wayne, out of the room. Wayne heard him slam the door behind him as he left. Then he looked up at Alfred.

"I had no idea this would happen," he said quietly.

Alfred stared at him, then looked back at Jessica, wringing his hands. Then he looked back up at Wayne. "I hate to say it, Sir," he said, "but you should have." He stared at Wayne for another long moment, then, his eyes returning to the floor, he passed Wayne, going out the door as well, leaving Wayne alone in the room with Jessica.

Wayne sighed, then looked up at Jessica, lying on the bed. He moved towards the bed, pausing by the side of it, then sat down in the chair Fox had been sitting in. He stared at Jessica for a long moment, then rested his arm on the armrest, then put his forehead in his palm.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered.

. . .

Dent took the cigarette from his mouth and exhaled smoke with a satisfied grin. "Wow," he sighed, chuckling slightly, "that was good." He looked over at Shawn, then reached an arm around him, taking his shoulder, and pulled him closer to his chest. "That was…" He took a deep breath, then let it out in a long sigh. "Great." He brought the cigarette back to his mouth and took a long drag of it, paused, and then breathed out the smoke in a deep exhale, closing his eyes and leaning back against the pillow. A contented grin crossed his face. "Wow," he said quietly.

Just then, his cell phone, sitting on the table beside the bed, began to ring. Dent opened his eyes and looked up, frowning slightly, and picked up the phone, looking at the number on the Caller ID. "Shit," he whispered. Then he glanced over at Shawn. "It's work," he said, sighing with a deep frown. "I gotta take this, I'm sorry. It'll only be a minute, I promise." He pushed the covers off his naked form and swung his legs out of bed, frowning down at the Caller ID on the phone. "I'll be right back," he assured Shawn, going into the next room and closing the door behind him.

Once he was in the room, he glanced down at the phone again, sighed, then opened it. "Rachel?" he asked, a bit of annoyance in his voice. "What is it?"

"Harvey?" She sounded tired. "Hey, Harvey. I'm glad I got you. Are you in the middle of something?"

"Kind-of," he said, glancing over his shoulder. He put a hand to his head, pushing his bangs from his eyes, and sighed, crossing his arm across his ribcage and resting his other elbow on it, holding the phone to his ear. "What do you need?"

There was a silence on the other end. "You sound so business-like, Harvey," she finally said, quietly. "You aren't still mad at me, are you? You know I didn't mean it."

"Yeah?" Dent asked, scoffing. "Well, you sure as hell could've fooled me."

"Harvey." She sounded exasperated now. "Don't do this."

Dent let out a long breath, looking down at the cigarette in his hand, then brought it to his mouth, taking a drag. "Okay," he said, exhaling the smoke, irritated. "What is it?"

"I've just been worried about you," Rachel told him. "I mean, you were so upset, after the whole incident with the Joker… and you never called me after you got out of prison."

"Yeah, well, I've been _busy,_ Rachel," he said curtly, taking a quick drag of the cigarette in his hand. "And, if I remember correctly, you weren't exactly my biggest fan when it came to my_ liberation_ efforts."

"Harvey, I wasn't thinking, okay?" she said with a goaded sigh. "You trying to save me… that was the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. And I really, really appreciate it. In fact, I think it was very… romantic."

Dent exhaled smoke, frowning. "Really?" he asked, thinking about it. He looked away for a moment. "I, um…" He flicked ashes from the end of his cigarette, thrown off. Then he looked up, an enthused expression on his face. "Hey, Rachel…" he said. "There's no chance we could… you know…" He shrugged, looking down at his cigarette. "…Get back together, is there?"

There was a silence from Rachel's end of the line. Then she exhaled. Dent waited, letting the cigarette smoulder in his hand in anticipation. "I don't see why not," Rachel finally said.

Dent smiled, bringing the cigarette back to his lips. "Rachel," he said, exhaling the smoke with a satisfied sigh, "you've just made my day."

"Glad I could help." Rachel's voice had a slight, laughing lilt to it. "So I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Sounds good to me," Dent replied with a smile. "All right then. See you soon. Goodbye." He hung up the phone and stared at it for a long moment. Then, taking a deep breath, he turned back, opened the door, and walked back into the bedroom. "Well," he sighed, grinning at Shawn and setting the phone back on the nightstand by his side of the bed, "now _that's_ over with…"

He got back into the bed, pulling the covers over himself and looking over at Shawn, stroking his face gently with the back of his hand. "We can get down to _really_ important things."

. . .

Charles was irritated out of his skull.

He'd spent the first few hours of the night in quiet isolation; he had to go outside to get away from the incessant chatter of that girl called Flicker, who seemed to have gotten over her mood swing from that morning. He ground his teeth in frustration at the thought of her. She had to die. He'd realized that by now. No one that irritating, and that heathenistic (making fun of his ring, for God's sake, was where he drew the line!), deserved to live. It was God's plan to get rid of the unholy people in this world.

Charles was just an messenger. An angel, you might say. He smiled loftily at the thought.

After a while of pacing, however, his prayers for patience had run out. He needed to go somewhere; the thought of the three people inside made his blood boil with a murderous rage. If he didn't leave soon, he might end up killing one of them. And that just wouldn't do, at least until he found Maria.

So he went for a walk, pacing through the dark streets without a destination in mind. He'd be able to find his way back; if not, he figured, Crane wouldn't particularly care that he'd gone missing. He _certainly_ wouldn't be worried. Goodhart let out his breath in a hiss, then noticed jerky movement from across the street and focused in on it sharply.

Aidan had slipped. He knew it, and he burned with shame from the idea. He'd promised himself no more drinks, _ever_. He was going clean, because maybe if he did, Maria would come back.

He shook his head, and discovered too late that the movement was too violent for his unsteady gait; he tipped to the side and barely managed to right himself in time to avoid a street light. He rubbed his head and continued his stumbling way down the street.

Charles frowned in irritation. He could smell the alcohol on the boy's breath, even from across the street. His patience had reached its limit. _Drinking is a sin,_ he reminded himself as he carefully crossed the street, stopping squarely in front of the drunk.

Aidan came to a halt in time to avoid bumping into the stranger. "H-ey, sorry..." he slurred, waving a hand in apology. He tried to move around the other man, but he blocked Aidan's path. Aidan finally looked up into Charles' dark eyes, confused. "S'rry, do I...know you?"

Charles responded by bringing out the gun he'd taken from the bar, and putting a bullet into Aidan's stomach.

Aidan immediately buckled over in pain, hitting the ground as his vision flickered. He moaned in agony, twisting and turning pathetically on the ground. Charles turned him onto his back with the toe of his boot, and just watched him for a moment with a proud gleam in his eye. Aidan stared back in horror.

"You have sinned." The words came out in a low murmur, fueled by built-up frustration and said with absolute conviction. "And 'the Son of Man will send out his angels, and they will weed out of his kingdom all who do evil'." The quote slipped from his lips without him realizing it; he smiled. The words were quite fitting. Aidan sputtered a muted protest, but Goodhart kicked him in the side. The boy turned to his side and coughed up some blood.

Goodhart watched him for a moment more before leaning down. "It's your time," he instructed the other man, who shook his head weakly.

"No..._no_..." He reached for the first thought he could focus on. "Iwuzz...Iwuzz g'nna...she was going to..._Maria_..." Charles' smug grin froze on his face, and his eyes widened. He leaned forward suddenly and grabbed the front of Aidan's jacket.

"Who is Maria?" he said slowly. Aidan simply stared in horrified confusion, and Goodhart shook him hard.

Aidan relented. "A...a friend." The answer didn't seem good enough for the other man; he shook him again. "Maria Goodhart! She's juss' a frien' of mine!" Aidan sputtered out, coughing up more blood. The dull burning pain was spreading from the bullet wound in his stomach; his vision was going slowly. But Goodhart smiled crazily and patted the boy's head.

He nodded to Aidan, then dropped him carelessly; he hit the pavement with a sickening thud. "That's good." _Very_ good. This boy had known Maria. But it was too late to ask him any more questions; Aidan's face was twisted with pain, his eyes were half-shut, and his breathing was growing more shallow by the second. Goodhart stared at him for a moment, then figured the least he could do was end his suffering more quickly.

He cocked the gun and fired a second shot into Aidan's chest. The boy jerked up, then didn't move.

Goodhart tucked the gun back into his pocket with a grin, cracking his knuckles. He turned to leave, then looked back at Aidan's body with a considering look on his face. He looked down at his ring, up at the body, then back at the ring again. Finally, he shrugged, and pulled a lighter out of his pocket.

He carefully held the ring above the flame for a minute, ignoring the scalding heat on his own fingers. Then, when it was ready, he leaned down and pressed the hot metal sharply into Aidan's skin. It hissed and sizzled, and he pulled it away after a moment to reveal a cross in the middle of the boy's forehead.

He smiled and, making sure to take Aidan's cell phone out of his pocket, headed back towards the warehouse, flexing his burnt fingers. It was time for a family reunion.

. . .

"Gordon, I swear to god, pick up your _damn_ phone..."

Maria heard the answering machine kick on, and slammed her own phone back into its carrier. It was far too late for her to think he would still be at work, anyways, the reasonable part of her mind told her. But she didn't _want_ to be reasonable. Not after what he'd told her. And he hadn't even bothered to talk to her _face_; he'd informed her that the Joker had, _once again_, escaped the police via answering machine.

She kicked the chair at the kitchen table, and it clattered to the floor with a very unsatisfying thud.

Finally, she grabbed the phone once more and dialed Gordon's work number. He'd left her a message; she'd just return the favor. When the beep finally came, indicating the start of the message, she took a deep breath.

"Gordon. It's Maria." She paused, staring blankly at the wall, lost for words. She decided to be frank, if more than a bit rude. "I don't want to hear your excuses for how Napier got away. He did. And now you want me to get involved again?" Her voice had risen in volume; she took a few deep breaths. "I don't think you understand what I've been through. You can just sit there happily, knowing that you've got a nice family to go home to. Hell, you've got a _home_." She laughed bitterly, looking around the hotel room.

She turned and paced towards the window. "I'll help for a while longer, but that's it." She paused, ready to hang up, but added spitefully, "The GCPD should learn to rely on their own power, not innocent civilians. If they can't get the job done, then this city really _has_ gone to hell." With that, she clicked the off button on the phone.

. . .

Thomas somehow managed to stumble home, where he finally pulled out his cell phone and listened to the four missed calls. They were all from work, of course; even through the drunken haze settled over his brain, he knew this was bad news. Maybe they hadn't fired him. Maybe...they wanted to _congratulate_ him for trying so hard.

He sat down heavily at the kitchen table. Not a fucking chance. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the card the stranger at the Iceberg Lounge had given him. He'd probably be needing it soon. He turned it the dim light of the hanging lamp, and sighed heavily. Suddenly, however, he noticed that it was no business card he was holding.

A lazy grin stretched across his face, and a crazily excited gleam lit his eyes. It was a _Joker_ card. Maybe his career was still safe.


	37. Chapter ThirtySix

Cobblepot sat at the bar, staring hard at the Joker card he held in his hand. Maggie came up and sat beside him, holding out a cigarette for him. Cobblepot looked over, took the cigarette, and smiled faintly at her. "Thank you, luv," he said. He put the cigarette in his mouth and looked back at the card.

"Where'd you get that, Os?" Maggie asked, looking over at the Joker card as well.

Cobblepot exhaled smoke. "In the card game, last night," he said. "The Joker came in, played a hand of cards, and left it."

"He left it for you?" Maggie asked. She put a hand on his back.

Cobblepot sighed. "He just left it," he said. "White turned it over, and there it was. It didn't register at the time, but…" He looked up at her, his pale blue eyes almost like a child's. "Well, I'm bloody_ frightened,_ Magpie," he said quietly.

Maggie frowned, looking away. Then she looked back at him. "Warren turned it over?" she asked.

Cobblepot's brow furrowed, and he looked over at her. "Yes," he said, not quite understanding her question.

Maggie raised her eyebrows. "Then I would think _he's_ the one who should be on the lookout," she said.

"But…" Cobblepot looked back at the Joker card. "How will he know which one of us turned the card over?" There was a long pause. Then both of them looked up at Tally. Tally stared at them for a long moment, then went back to cleaning the glasses. Cobblepot paused, then looked back at Maggie. Maggie took a deep breath.

"He's not _stupid,_ Os," she said. "The Joker has eyes everywhere."

"Hm," said Cobblepot, looking back at the card in his hand. He stared at it for a long moment, then put it back in his pocket. "Well," he said with a sigh, "we can't sit around worrying forever. Besides, we're part of the underground, Magpie." He turned to her, smiled, then held out a hand and gently stroked the side of her face. "It's a dangerous world."

Maggie smiled at him. "But at least we've got each other, right, Os?" she said.

He smiled back at her reassuringly. "For however long," he said. Then he reached into his pocket. "Speaking of which, my dear," he said, "I have a little gift for you." He pulled something from his pocket, holding it in his fist. "Hold out your hands," he said. Maggie eagerly did as she was told, and Cobblepot held his hand over hers and dropped something into her outstretched palms.

Maggie retrieved her hands and looked down into them to see a glittering diamond bracelet. She looked back up at him, her face aglow. "Oh, _Os,_" she said with a breathy sigh.

"I saw it, and instantly thought of you," Cobblepot said, smiling at her and taking a drag of his cigarette. He blew out the smoke, watching her admire it. "Go try it on!" he said, shooing her off. "See if you like it." Maggie nodded eagerly and turned, scurrying off to try on the jewellery. Cobblepot exhaled deeply, turning away, and pulled the Joker card from his pocket again, staring at it. "Oh, dear," he said quietly.

Cobblepot looked up at Tally, who was busying himself cleaning the bar. "Tally," he said, and the big black man looked up at him. Cobblepot paused a moment, looking at the card, then looked back at Tally. "You would never turn against me, would you?" he asked. Tally stared at him, silent. "I mean..." Cobblepot looked back down at the card in his hand. "You would never... _rat me out_ to anyone, would you?" Tally continued to stare at him, silent. Cobblepot stared back for a moment, then turned back to the card in his hand.

"I'll take that as a no," he said.

. . .

Jeanette sighed and stayed still, eyes closed, for a moment after waking up. She was back in Italy, in her own bed. Behind her must be Mark; who else? And...well, maybe one of her smaller cousins had gotten lonely. She smiled and put an arm around the little body in front of her. It was known to happen with kids like that, and her older relatives were always too busy.

With _business_.

She sighed resentfully at that thought, then finally opened her eyes to a head of curly, honey-colored hair that she only half-recognized. She pulled away, bumping into who she'd thought was Mark, and turned to find Napier's permanent grin.

_HOLY SHIT._

She froze, carefully turning back to look at the little girl (she didn't bother to question why the hell Napier had been sleeping so close to her in the first place). It was Jeannie Rose. Jeanette couldn't believe it. She'd thought the little girl had been taken, along with her mother, by Crane. But...here she was. Jeanette put a hand on the girl's shoulder and shook her gently, propping an elbow up on the pillow. "Hey...sweetie?" she said quietly, checking nervously behind her to make sure Napier was still asleep. She had no idea how to deal with this.

Napier felt the person under his arm moving away from him, and he tried to gently pull her back to his side. "No, don't go, Kitty," he murmured, "it's too early… Just stay here, with me…" He paused, frowning, and opened his eyes. He stared at Jeanette for a moment, then sighed, retracting his arm. He had gotten over being surprised when he did not wake up to Kitty next to him, and seeing Jeanette made him suddenly remember what all had happened the night before.

Of course, his splitting hangover helped remind him a bit, too.

Napier groaned, turning away from Jeanette on the bed. He stared at the opposite wall for a long moment, trying to collect his thoughts. He frowned a bit when he heard Jeanette speak. "Sweetie…?" he repeated to himself in a low voice. Had she really just called him sweetie? She must still be asleep, dreaming about someone she actually wanted to be next to, rather than him.

He hesitated for a moment, then sat up in bed, closing his eyes and putting a pained hand to his head. "I'm…" he started to say, but stopped, his head throbbing. "I'm gonna go get some coffee," he mumbled. He got up from the bed, steadying himself, then staggered to the door, and finally out the door and into the kitchen.

Jeannie Rose yawned, and her eyes fluttered open. She paused a moment, then looked over at Jeanette. "Is my mommie back?" she asked. Before Jeanette had a chance to answer, Jeannie Rose had jumped out of bed and was out the door of the bedroom. "Mommie!" she called, running into the kitchen. "Momm-" She stopped short when she saw Napier standing there, getting himself a cup of coffee. She stared at him for a long moment, wordlessly and slightly morbidly rapt by how tall he was, now that he was standing and not lying down. He was bigger than she had originally thought, and it was a little scary.

Napier coughed slightly, pushing a lock of hair from his eyes, and took a sip of black coffee, making a face at the taste. He turned to go back to the bedroom to continue his conversation with Jeanette, but when he turned, he found himself facing a small child he had never seen before. His first instinct was that the child belonged to Jeanette, but then he remembered that Jeanette was strictly single, and most definitely childless. He looked down at the child, a frown creasing his face, then glanced over his shoulder to see where she might have come from. Then he looked back at her. "The hell…?" he wondered aloud, staring at her. "Where'd _you_ come from?"

Jeannie Rose looked up at him, paused, and then frowned darkly, not saying a word.

Napier regarded the child with disdain, frowning down at her, slowly removing his hand from his head. The two just stared at each other for a long moment, neither one seeming very pleased to be in the presence of the other. Finally Napier spoke. "What do _you_ want?" he asked coldly.

Jeannie Rose glared at him, scrunching up her face to show her disapproval of him. Then, gritting her teeth, she balled up her fist and punched him, hard, in the crotch.

Napier grabbed hold of the counter, biting his lip as he bent double, his other arm retracting in pain to the blow he had received. He let out a high-pitched moan of agony, then looked up at the little girl with a look of surprised, confused anguish. "What was _that_ for?!" he exclaimed.

"My mommie told me never to talk to strangers!" Jeannie Rose exclaimed, hunching her shoulders and stiffly standing her ground.

Napier squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his teeth, and shook his head, taking a long, sharp inhale. "Yeah, but did your _mommie_ ever tell you to hit strangers in the…" he started to say, but left off, straightening up. He cleared his throat, sniffed, and looked back down at Jeannie Rose. "That… wasn't… _nice,_" he told her haltingly, apparently still in pain. "Don't… do that anymore, okay?"

"You smell funny," Jeannie Rose retorted, glaring at him. "And you're funny-looking."

"Yeah, well, you don't exactly exude the scent of a _flower garden_ either, _honey,_" Napier retorted, bending down slightly to be on a more even level with Jeannie Rose. "And you know what? I happen to _like_ the way I look. So there."

"I don't," Jeannie Rose said curtly. "I don't like you at _all._"

"Well, it doesn't really_ matter_ what you think, now _does_ it?" Napier replied sharply.

Jeannie Rose hesitated a moment, trying to think of something to say, but, not thinking of anything, stuck her tongue out at Napier.

Napier paused, slightly taken aback. Then stuck his tongue out at her as well. Jeannie Rose looked surprised, and retracted her tongue. Napier smirked, retracting his as well. "That'll show you to mess with _me,_" he said, looking away again. Jeannie Rose hesitated, then balled up her fist again. Napier yelped and jumped away. Jeannie Rose smiled knowingly, lowering her fist.

"Sissy," she said.

"Brat," Napier mumbled, frowning and looking away.

"Jeannie Rose, leave him alone. Jack...be mature," Jeanette said with a frown, leaning in the doorway comfortably now that she was sure the two wouldn't tear each other apart. It was sort of silly, really, to think that Jeannie Rose was capable of that sort of thing...

Then again, she _was_ (quite clearly) her daddy's girl. Jeanette looked away and held back laughter.

The urge to giggle faded quickly when she turned her mind back to the problem at hand. There wasn't a chance she could predict what Napier would do if she explained who Jeannie Rose was. And the girl...well, she'd never been good with little kids, anyways. Finally, she sighed. "I'm...going to go change." She turned to the endless bags of clothing she'd bought the day before, wondering briefly what she'd do with them when she went to their new place...wherever that was.

Then she looked back up at Napier and Jeannie Rose. "Don't hurt each other too badly while I'm gone, okay?" She gave Jeannie Rose a firm, parental look, and Napier a "I'll explain later" look, and then went off to the bathroom.

Napier caught the look Jeanette gave him as she disappeared into the bathroom. He frowned, leaning against the counter, and took a sip of black coffee. "Yes, _mother,_" he mumbled. Then his eyes returned to the little girl, who was still glaring daggers at him. "What?" he asked, monotone. "You want a cookie or something? Stop staring at me."

"Don't mess with me, I'll beat you up," Jeannie Rose told him, dead serious.

"Jesus, you're an aggressive little thing, aren't you?" Napier asked as he took another sip of black coffee. "What are you, like, four?"

"I'm five!" Jeannie Rose retorted. "An' the doctor says I'm gonna be real tall when I grow up, just like my daddy!"

"Your daddy, huh?" Napier asked. "What is he, like, some kind of crime lord, sending out his munchkins to go beat up on innocent citizens?"

"I'm not a munchkin!" Jeannie Rose shot back. "And you smell funny!"

"I thought we already established this," Napier said with an impatient sigh, taking another drink of his coffee. "And could you not shout? My head hurts, and you aren't helping in the least."

Jeannie Rose crossed her arms, glaring at him. "My mommie gets sick in the morning sometimes, too," she said. "Miss Jeanette says it's worrisome."

"Yeah, well, maybe your _mommie_ has a little _drinking problem,_" Napier replied bitterly.

Jeannie Rose shook her head. "My mommie doesn't drink," she retorted. "My mommie says drinking is bad for you, and it makes you _stupid._"

"Mm," Napier took another sip of black coffee. "Smart woman."

Jeannie Rose looked him up and down once, then looked back up at him, frowning. "Stupid," she said.

Napier spit out the coffee he had been drinking. He paused a moment, then turned to her. "What'd you call me?" he asked, a bit shocked.

"You heard me," she replied flatly. "_Stupid._"

Napier set down his coffee, staring at the little girl. "Jesus Christ," he said, exasperated, "you hostile little bitch!" He took a step towards her, and she took a step back, her expression instantly changing to one of shock and slight fear. Then she opened her mouth and began to scream at the top of her lungs. Napier grabbed his head, cringing back against the counter, squeezing his eyes shut and wrapping his arms around his head, trying to block out the noise.

"MISS JEANETTE!" Jeannie Rose screamed. "MISS JEANETTE, HE'S GONNA HURT ME!"

"What?!" Napier looked up. "No I'm-" But he did not have time to finish his statement before Jeannie Rose started screaming again. With an exclamation of agony and frustration, he covered his head and hunched into an anguished heap on the countertop. "I'm not going to hurt you!" he groaned. "Make it STOP!"

Jeannie Rose stopped screaming and just stared at him. There was a moment of hesitation, then Napier looked up, completely dishevelled, and let out a long, relieved sigh. Then he looked over at Jeannie Rose, who was staring at him, looking quite smug.

"Don't mess with me," she told him again.

Napier glared at the little girl, picking up his coffee mug and indicating her with it. "This means war," he said bitterly, and took a drink of coffee.

Jeanette only had time to pull on jeans before she heard Jeannie Rose screaming from the kitchen. She rushed out of the bathroom, ready to give Napier a piece of her mind, before she noticed that the two were simply staring daggers at each other. "Oh, for chrissakes..." She scowled and pulled the shirt in her hand over her head.

"What happened?" she asked the little girl in a demanding tone, before looking back up at Napier. His eyes were narrowed in pain. "And what did she do to you?" she added with a half-smile that quickly disappeared. The similarities between the two were striking. Their hair, their eyes...even the way they carried themselves was identical. Anything in Jeannie Rose that didn't come straight from Jack clearly came from Kitty. Jeanette shook her head, finally making a decision.

"Jack, do me a favor?" she asked, thinking about how to word her request. She yanked one sock on, balancing herself against the counter. "Look at her for a minute..." she indicated Jeannie Rose, "...then go look in a mirror." Then she turned to Jeannie Rose. "Sweetie, your mom's out right now. We're going to go find her really soon, though, okay?"

She looked away, uncomfortable. Dealing with the little girl was unsettling; it brought back more memories of her life in Italy. Memories that, if she had a choice, she would rather have forgotten. Now that she was thinking about it though, it begged the question of why she'd woken up that morning thinking that she was back home. She didn't _miss_ it. God, no. Home meant dealing with her father and mother, and all of her male cousins. Something told her she just wouldn't be comfortable in that environment any more.

Plus, Italy meant Mark. She frowned, eyes roving the room.

She was _definitely_ not comfortable with _that_ thought.

"This child," Napier indicated Jeannie Rose with a look of disgust, "is trying to kill me." He took a sip of coffee, still glaring at the girl. "I think you should return it to whatever shelter you found it at so it can find a different home."

"Miss Jeanette, he's being a big meanie," Jeannie Rose said, pointing at Napier. "I never did anything to him, and now he's being mean to me."

Napier scoffed. "Liar," he spat. Then he looked up at Jeanette in surprise. "Since when did you call me _Jack?_" he asked, too thrown off to even remember his cup of coffee. He paused, then looked over, picked it up again, and took a drink. "And I've been looking at the brat for the past five minutes. I haven't seen anything spectacular. Why, am I supposed to see something?"

"You just don't wanna look in the mirror 'cause you're funny-looking," Jeannie Rose said.

Napier looked over at her with a wide, sarcastic, bitter, almost scary grin. "You know," he said, "you're just so _cute_ that I kinda wanna hug you until your little _head_ pops off."

Jeannie Rose scrunched up her nose and scowled at Napier. "Sicko!" she exclaimed.

"And proud," Napier said with a sadistic grin. He sighed, staring at her, trying to see what Jeanette was talking about, and took another sip of black coffee. Then he frowned slightly. "You have really interesting eyes," he told her. "Very familiar." He sniffed, nodding to himself, and continued examining the little girl.

"Stop looking at me," Jeannie Rose finally said, starting to squirm. "It's creepy."

"Fine," Napier said, shrugging. He turned back to Jeanette. "The gremlin doesn't want to be looked at," he told her, taking a sip of coffee. "When are we going to start looking for Crane?"

"Mister Crane is a bad, bad man," Jeannie Rose suddenly put in, solemn. "He did mean things to my mommie."

"Your poor mommie," Napier said, monotone, making it apparent he could not care less. Then a sarcastic grin lit up his face, and his voice switched to an overly happy, mocking tone as he told her, "Mister Crane is about to have his ribs removed with a rusty dinner utensil."

Jeannie Rose stared at him, somewhere between confused and shocked. "That's gross," she finally said.

"You and I are going to get along _so_ well," Napier said, still grinning at her. Then he turned back to Jeanette. "I say we ditch the gremlin at the first possible police station. Or hospital." He paused a moment, thinking, and took a sip of coffee. "Or bus stop," he said.

"Oh, my God..." Jeanette shook her head at the two of them. They were being such _children_. That was okay in Jeannie Rose's case, she supposed, but Napier was an _adult_. "Whatever. Jeannie Rose, don't be scared of him or anything." She grinned and looked away. "He won't do anything, I promise." Then she turned back to Napier, frowning. Had she said Jack...? "Well, since when have you called me _Jeanette_?" she asked him somewhat immaturely, propping her hands on her hips.

So he didn't recognize Jeannie Rose. That was just fine and dandy with her. She wasn't going to tell him - might be a bit too much shock without someone to explain the whole thing, and Jeanette didn't know all the details. Besides, she needed him focused on finding Crane. Once that guy's guts were strewn around the streets, they could deal with Napier's past.

"Hey, hey," Napier said, holding up a finger, "I only called you that once. And I was…" He stopped, paused a moment, and then his hand returned to his coffee cup. "I only called you that once," he mumbled, looking away.

Jeanette paused in pulling on her shoes and looked up. "_Right_, you called me that when you tried to..." She paused, looked at Jeannie Rose, and went back to tying her shoes with a glare. That was close. "_You know._"

Napier looked away at her statement. "Okay," he mumbled, "I called you that _twice,_ then." He had almost entirely forgotten about their little interlude, and had forgotten completely that he had called her by her name at the time. He folded his arms, taking a long sip of coffee. "Well, what am I _supposed_ to call you, then?" he muttered, not looking at her, quirking an eyebrow, "_Rossini?_" He took another sip of coffee, then set it down on the table, swallowing. "Sounds very _mafia,_" he said under his breath. "Very _Marlon Brando._"

"Well, that makes _sense_, doesn't it?" she said slowly and deliberately, sneaking another cautious glance at Jeannie Rose. The mafia? What the hell did he _think _her family was? She rolled her eyes and put a hand on Jeannie Rose's head. "Don't _call me_ anything." Names were too...intimate, anyways. They indicated that you _knew_ someone. Were _aquaintances _with them. The only aquaintance Jeanette could afford was Ozzie, and that was solely because she needed _someone_ to supply her with weapons. Anyone beyond him was just asking for trouble.

Maybe it was cliche, but knowing people created weak spots. Loved ones were a liability. Say you were facing off against some psychotic killer - what was the number one thing that could be used against you? Jeanette grinned. By that way of thinking, it was _good_ that she and her parents hated each other.

"I'm not scared of him!" Jeannie Rose exclaimed. "He's a big sissy."

"I'm going to twist your little fingers off, one at a time," Napier said through his teeth, taking a sip of coffee, making absolutely sure not to look at her. "And I'm going to _enjoy_ it." Then he looked up at Jeanette. "Now? Can we at least wait…" He paused, trying to figure out how long it would take for his hangover to subside. "A little bit?" he asked.

"Stupid," Jeannie Rose said again, quieter.

Napier looked down at her and opened his mouth to say something, paused, then closed his mouth, took a deep breath, and took a sip of coffee. "And people wonder why I drink," he mumbled. Then he looked back at Jeannie Rose. "Arguing with you is below me," he said, apparently trying very hard to keep himself in check.

"You're just out of comebacks," Jeannie Rose said triumphantly.

"Of course I am," Napier said, nodding slightly. "But if you find a dead kitten in your bed tomorrow morning, don't come crying to _me_ about it."

Jeannie Rose looked horrified. "You're awful!" she exclaimed.

Napier took another sip of coffee and grinned.

Jeanette scowled and sighed in a harassed way. "Fine, fine." she said, clenching the bridge of her nose. Advil sounded really, _really_ good right now, but she had more important things to deal with. "We're going to start looking for him _now_," she replied, looking out the window.

How the hell were they going to find Crane? She hadn't thought about how big of a problem that was until just now; she'd been distracted by...other things. They had no leads, no informants, no real technology...she wasn't used to working like this. But she'd have to make do with what they had. Their brains.

She covered her face with one hand. They were screwed.

"I'm going to go see Ozzie," she finally said, suddenly recalling the man's comment from the night before. Anything of interest to her might be helpful. The thought of Os, though, brought up another thought. She smiled murderously and looked up at Napier. "And speaking of which, did you _really_ blow up all of my tools?"

Napier turned to Jeanette again. He paused, moving his head from side to side, his dark eyes searching the ceiling. Then he shrugged. "Not _all_ of them," he said, looking at his coffee cup. He frowned. "Damn," he mumbled. "I'm out." He looked up at the coffee pot, crossed to it, and refilled his cup. He sighed, taking a sip of hot black coffee, and put the pot back. "I might get used to the taste of this," he told her, trying to be amiable.

"Let me try," Jeannie Rose said, standing on her toes and putting her arms up on the counter, staring over at him.

He paused, looking at her, then looked at the cup of coffee. Then he looked back at her. "No," he said, and took a sip of his coffee. He looked away, swishing the coffee in his mouth, then looked back at Jeanette and swallowed. "Ozzie?" he asked. "Is he that guy from the Iceberg Lounge? Short guy? Blond? Kinda stocky?" He grinned. "'Bout as straight as a circle?"

He looked back at his coffee, then took another sip. "Yeah, uh... I think he might have something you'd be interested in," he told her. "Just..." He twisted his mouth to one side, frowning slightly. "Don't ask him where he got it." He looked back up at her, somewhat hopeful. "'Kay?"

Jeanette propped her hands on her hips and looked at Jeannie Rose. "You are coming with _me_," she told the girl, looking her over and deciding that her current outfit would do. Ozzie would just have to _live__Oh, great..._ she thought, looking at the floor and rubbing her head. From what Napier said, he'd met Ozzie already. with it, and she'd just have to hope that he didn't question why she had a kid and some random stranger with her.

Napier grinned, picking his coffee back up, when Jeanette told Jeannie Rose she would be going with her. "Looks like you're shit out of luck, gremlin," he smirked, taking a sip of coffee.

Jeanette up at Napier with a patient smile. "And so are _you_. And you're going to pay me back every _cent_ Ozzie says I owe him."

Napier choked, coughing violently as he inhaled the hot liquid. "What?!" he exclaimed, looking up at her with watering eyes.

Jeanette grabbed her purse, and added, "And no, we will _not_ wait until your hangover is gone."

"Looks like you're plum out of luck, stupid," Jeannie Rose said with a smirk.

Napier put a hand to his chest, setting the coffee cup down on the counter and hacking, trying to catch his breath. He cleared his throat, wiping at his eyes, and stared up at Jeanette. "You've got to be kidding," he told her. "There's no way I'm going back there, _especially_ with this." He indicated his temple. "That little prick in the tux will get _way_ too much entertainment out of seeing me like this. I mean..."

He looked away, frowning. Then he looked back at Jeanette. "I know I dropped a couple cards last night," he told her, in a slightly lower voice. "But I don't even remember who I dropped them to. I mean, what if I gave one to him... Ozzie... and he sees me today, all hung over, trailing along like some dog on a leash?" He shook his head, clearing his throat again as he took another sip of coffee. "I'm not going," he told her firmly. "You can take the gremlin if you want, but... I'm not going."

Jeannie Rose just stared at him. Then she turned to Jeanette, pulling on the leg of her jeans. "What's hung over?" she asked.

"It's punishment for stupid people," Napier replied bitterly.

"I wasn't asking _you,_" Jeannie Rose replied, turning back to him. "And if that's true, then you _deserve_ to be hung over."

"Can't argue with you there," Napier mumbled, taking another sip of coffee.

Jeanette put her hands on her hips, stubborn as a mule. "For Christ's sake, you're _coming_. You think those guns were just worth some spare change? They're not toys. They're _tools_. And now I'm going to have to buy back whatever you sold to Ozzie, just because you couldn't be bothered to _think_ before you _acted_." She pointed at the door. "Stop acting like a child. You're behaving worse than _she_ is." She indicated Jeannie Rose, then awkwardly picked up the little girl. She wasn't made for holding children anymore - she was made for holding a gun.

Napier paused, taking a meticulous sip of coffee, then swallowed, set his coffee cup down, and looked back up at Jeanette. "Don't," he said slowly, "talk down to me." He stood up to his full height, turning to her. "I might not be smart," he told her, "but I'm not stupid. So don't treat me like I am." He glanced at Jeannie Rose, then back at Jeanette. "Her," he said, indicating Jeannie Rose, "and you... both act like you can talk to me like I'm some kind of equal or even," he scoffed, "_less_ than equal, and I'm not going to put up with that."

He indicated himself, jabbing himself in the chest. "I am the most feared criminal in Gotham," he said. "And I didn't get that title by being pushed around by uppity Italian heiresses and frilly little brats." He turned back to his coffee, picked up the cup, considered it, then dropped it on the floor, watching with a disinterested look of mediocrity as the cup hit the floor and shattered, spraying coffee everywhere. "Whoops," he said, monotone.

Napier let out a bored sigh, then looked back up at Jeanette. "I could rip your head off with my bare hands," he told her. "I _have_ ripped someone's head off with my bare hands. Do you know how many people I've killed, with just these?" He raised his hands for her to see. "I don't need guns. Guns are too quick. You may have a practiced, meticulous killing style, but mine is more... _sporadic_."

He shrugged, dropping his hands. "I might be just too rough around the edges for you," he went on. "But I refuse to be told what to do by someone who I could easily rape and kill, if I wanted." He pushed a swatch of green hair from his eyes and leaned back against the counter.

"You can take the girl," he said, "but I'm not going."

Jeanette stared evenly at Napier for a moment, looked at the shattered mug on the floor, then back up at him. Then she let out a sigh, equally as bored, equally as calm. "Keep up your precious big man on campus act. Really. It's funny as _hell_," she told him, turning towards the door with Jeannie Rose in tow. She stopped in the doorway, and looked back with an icy stare.

"Big man on campus...?" he frowned, looking up as she started out.

"Watch your back. I have no plans for after we get rid of Crane. And you're next on my list." She turned to leave, but added over her shoulder, "You can start thinking up ways to kill the little bastard while I'm gone, if you think your poor hungover brain can _handle it_." With that, she slammed the door.

He crossed his arms, tilting his head slightly as he tried to come up with some kind of verifiable comeback. "Fine, I'll keep up mine as long as you keep up yours!" he countered to her back as she started out the door. "I'll keep acting like this as long as you keep acting like... like..." He searched for the words to describe it. "A stuck-up ingénue!" he finally exclaimed, but his only response was the close of the door.

He unfolded his arms, staring at the door for a long moment. Then he smacked himself in the forehead. "Stupid," he scolded himself. "Stuck-up ingénue? What kind of..." He growled in frustration, looking down at the shattered coffee mug. "Should've _showed_ her," he said, frowning. "Shouldn't have just... countered with _words,_ should've..." He nodded to himself, taking a deep breath. "Next time," he told himself. "Next time, she won't get away so easy."

Napier let out a huff of breath, looking up at the door where Jeanette had disappeared. "Watch my back," he mumbled under his breath, kicking at the shattered mug. "_She's_ the one who should be watching her back. Her and Crane." He sniffed, looking up. "If my hung over brain can handle it," he muttered bitterly, glancing back towards the bedroom. "Fuckin'... what kind of thing is that to say?" He looked back at the shattered mug. "Bitch," he mumbled.

He looked up towards the bedroom again, and, completely forgetting the mug on the floor, he started back towards it. He would have to go back to the apartment he had been using while Jeanette was away and collect his things, but that could wait a bit. He leaned in the doorway of the bedroom, staring in at the bed, frowning. She drove him crazy, with her strange, cold ways and her biting, fuck-all attitude. But there was something in her that he found not only physically attractive, but also mentally stimulating. It was not that he had never been in such a close relationship with a woman smarter than himself before...

Well, actually, maybe that _was_ it.

Napier frowned, looking around the bedroom, and stepped inside. He ran a hand over the bedspread, almost absentmindedly, then turned to the closet. He paused a moment, then opened it. The closet was full of black dresses – that was no surprise – but they were packed so tightly he could almost not determine where one dress ended and another began. He pulled one out of the closet and held it up, examining it. It seemed to be a rather modest dress, not what he had grown accustomed to seeing Jeanette wear. He looked at it, frowning slightly. Perhaps she dressed differently on occasion, he assumed.

He turned, looking at his reflection in the full-length mirror that stood in the bedroom. There seemed to be one in almost every room of this house. He held the dress up to himself, and his frown deepened a bit. He remembered that Jeanette's head had reached his shoulder, and yet the dress he held seemed to be made for someone shorter than that, and also, he noticed, pulling it out against his torso, slightly less slender.

He pulled the dress away from himself, looking down at it, then shrugged, setting it down on the bed carelessly. Perhaps that was one of Jeanette's old dresses, from when she was younger, and did not have quite the body she had at the moment. That, or the dress could belong to someone else...

He shook his head, clearing the thought from it. Then he looked up. "I should get my stuff," he told himself. He took one last look at the dress, paused, then pushed himself up from the bed and started out.

Who did he think he was, pushing her around? She was _not_ some timid little bird who'd crumple at the first sign of trouble. She grinned and readjusted the little girl in her arms. In other words, she was _not_ Kitty. Maybe Napier just needed to get that idea through his thick skull.

If she were to be honest with herself, Jeanette would admit she was happy with the way things were. No more of that friendly business from the night before. This was how she liked her life: chancy. Risky. She'd considered the possibility that she was a thrill-seeker, but decided that it was just a way to get rid of boredom.

She arrived at the Iceberg Lounge in a much better mood than the night before, and headed straight to the bar where she found Ozzie. He looked worried. She ignored it. "Did he sell you my guns?" were the first words out of her mouth; she skipped a faux-polite greeting. Now wasn't the time. She wanted her tools back, and she wanted to start tracking down Crane.

Cobblepot started when he heard the sudden sound of Jeanette's voice, and he instantly turned to face her. He stared at her for a long moment. "By _he,_ do you mean…" he began to say, but stopped short when he saw Jeannie Rose. He stared at the little girl for a long moment, then looked back at Jeanette. "Oh, my," he said. "I didn't realize you and that Joker fellow were such good friends."

Cobblepot looked back at Jeannie Rose, staring at her, and then back at Jeanette. "She doesn't look like you at _all,_ my dear," he commented, stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray. "It seems she's gotten all her father's looks. Which is all right, I suppose…" He looked back at Jeannie Rose and took a breath. "I don't suppose he _used_ to be… unattractive," he said haltingly. He looked back at Tally, who was ignoring him, cleaning a glass. "No," he said thoughtfully, "I don't suppose he used to be… very unattractive at all."

He shook his head, then, realizing he was seeming too pensive, he turned to Jeanette. "Though he should really quit that drinking," he said, returning to his usual careless nature. "If he doesn't, he's going to blow up just like Marlon Brando." He sighed, considering the stubbed-out cigarette in the ashtray. "Such a waste," he said in an airy tone. "He was so handsome in Streetcar Named Desire."

He paused a moment, thinking, then turned back to Jeanette. "But anyways," he said, trying to regain his usual calm composure, "back to the issue at hand." He smiled at her, but the smile was false and cold. "Come with me to my back room," he said, getting up from the barstool and waving with his hand for her to come along. "Come on. We can continue this discussion there." He walked towards the back room, trusting her to follow behind, and held the door open for her, locking it after she had entered and turning to her.

Cobblepot took a deep breath, staring at her, then stepped away from the door. "Jeanette," he said in a low voice. He produced the Joker card he had been looking at earlier and showed it to her. "I'm very worried," he told her. "I didn't think much of this card when it was dropped last night, but… now I'm starting to think it might be a warning sign." He swallowed, trying to keep his cool, and tucked the card back in his breast pocket.

"But I shouldn't let that be a damper on _you,_ my dear," he said, taking a deep breath and crossing to her. He cleared his throat, producing the gun in the slim silver case that Napier had sold to him the night before. He opened the case to show Jeanette that the weapon was still in admirable condition, then closed it. He paused a moment, considering the case, then handed it to her. "I couldn't charge you for this, luv," he said quietly.

Jeanette took the case awkwardly with one hand while clinging to Jeannie Rose precariously with the other. In the end, she put the kid down. She could _walk_, right? A five-year-old could do _that_ much, right? She looked pointedly at the girl to make sure she wouldn't run off, then checked on the gun again. It was safe. Thank God. The rest of her stuff didn't matter, but this one...this one was special. "Thanks," she said to Ozzie with a genuine smile.

A slight chuckle came to his lips. "Between what I paid for it originally, what you bought it for, and how much I paid for it back just last night…" He shrugged. "I'd say everything is about even, really. So… consider it a gift. From me to you." He put a hand to his chest, indicating his heartfelt intentions. "But," he said, raising a finger, "I do have _one_ request, if it's at all possible…" He glanced over his shoulder, making sure he was not being listened in on, then turned back to Jeanette.

"If he asks," he said in a low voice, "_White_ turned over the card."

He smiled faintly at her, then looked at Jeannie Rose. "All right?" he asked, smiling at her.

Jeannie Rose frowned slightly. "You talk funny," she said.

Cobblepot laughed at that, all his built-up tension seeming to melt away. He looked back at the child, the smile now real and relieved. "Well, yes," he said, nodding, "I suppose I do." He looked back at Jeanette, still laughing, then moved to the door, unlocked it, and opened it, indicating for the two of them to go outside. "I like her," he said, indicating Jeannie Rose with a grin. He chuckled again, shaking his head. "If nothing else, she got your sharp tongue."

Jeanette looked at Jeannie Rose again with raised eyebrows, then up at Os. "You think...?" She snorted once in laughter. "God, Os, she's not _mine_. It's _nothing_ like that." She shook her head slowly, watching the little girl again. "She's just...a friend's. Who needs me to watch her for a little while," she explained with a short nod. "And _he_ and I aren't good friends, at all. Not even friends." She tugged at her ponytail with a frustrated scowl. Then she cleared her stony expression with a carefree grin and a shrug that clearly told him to drop it.

"You're probably right," she added in a more serious tone as they headed back to the main room. "A warning..." She looked back at Os. She watched him closely for a moment. His usual carefree, flighty attitude had a definite cloud cast over it; he had let it slip, apparently because he was worried about the situation. That fact alone told Jeanette how deeply he was troubled. She put a hand on his shoulder, and said, "I'll put in a good word, okay?" She smiled reassuringly, then nodded and took Jeannie Rose's hand and began to leave.

She turned back at the door. There was no one at the Lounge this early, so she called back, "Oh, nearly forgot. Think you could find something of the more...handheld variety for me?"

Cobblepot turned back to look at her at her inquiry, and an attentive expression crossed his face. "Hand-held…?" he asked. He turned away from the door, closing it again, and moved back to the stacks of boxes. He put a hand to his chin, considering them, looking over each one thoughtfully. "I know I have something…" he mused, tapping a finger against his cheek. Then he moved to one of the boxes, opened the lid, and peered inside. "Here we are," he said, opening the box.

Cobblepot pulled out a small box and turned back to Jeanette with it. "The SIG-Sauer P-225 pistol," he said, opening the box and letting her look inside. "These are the best around, well-respected for their reliability and accuracy and said to never malfunction." He handed the box to her, letting her have a look for herself. "Because it is a small weapon," he said, "and because I love you _so_ much... I'll give it to you for a mere five hundred." He smiled at her. "Cash, as always, my dear," he told her.

Jeanette picked up the gun with a suitably impressed expression on her face. "I keep telling myself, Ozzie, that one of these days you're going to let me down," she said, turning it over to inspect the barrel. It was smooth and cool, perfectly made with no nicks or dents. "And, I'll be damned, I keep being disappointed." She smiled and placed the gun back into the box, reaching for her purse. "As always," she repeated, pulling out the aforementioned amount and handing it over with a look at Jeannie Rose.

She wondered briefly what the girl thought of all this. She was a sharp one, as Cobblepot had said, and was probably just sucking it all up. Jeanette frowned. Poor kid, getting involved in all this at such a young age. If she was lucky, she'd remember this when she grew up and got thrust into the real world, where she'd have to fend for herself. Maybe she'd learn from it. Maybe not. Either way, this wasn't Jeanette's fault; Jeannie's mommy was the one who'd gotten herself kidnapped.

He looked at Jeannie Rose then, staring at her for a long moment. "A friend's, is she?" he asked slowly. He stared at her for a long moment, then looked back at Jeanette. "Did this _friend_ of yours happen to have sex with this _not-friend_ of yours?" he asked, grinning wryly at her. "Because there's no denying… that child looks like that not-friend of yours." He paused a moment, then frowned slightly. "Does he know?" he asked suddenly. Then he raised a hand. "Don't answer that," he said, "it's none of my business."

Her eyes snapped back up to Os then, and she sighed in relief. She didn't have to explain to him. It was probably better that way; the less he knew, the less he would have to get involved in this mess. She simply offered a noncommittal shrug as he dismissed the issue.

Cobblepot started for the door again, then paused, turning back to Jeanette again. "Jeanette," he said with a slight frown. "You know… there are dangerous people out there. People like us... those only looking out for our own interests in this crazy world... we have to be wary of those people." He looked away for a moment. "Warren White," he told her slowly. "He's a very unpredictable man. Now, I know I joke about people like him a lot, but... he's very powerful in the underground. You might not hear a lot about it in the social circles you inhabit, but... he could very easily twist anyone any way he wants."

He took a deep breath, then let it out meticulously. "White has accomplices everywhere," he told her in a low voice. "You never know if you're talking to someone who's working for White." He indicated himself. "I'm not working for White," he said, "and I'm pretty sure you aren't, either. But I'm just telling you..." He shrugged. "I just don't want you to get hurt," he told her. "Because, believe it or not... I care about you." He smiled at her.

"Now, I'm not saying I trust you, or I want you to trust me, because that would destroy our relationship," he said with a slight chuckle. "But just know that, if you ever need a friend... I'll be here, right here." He looked at Jeannie Rose again and sighed. Then he looked back at Jeanette. "Would you like to take a walk?" he asked. He put his hands in his pockets. "You should probably put the tot back where you got her," he said. "Where we'd be going isn't exactly... Disneyland."

Finally, she smirked. "Os..." she said, raising an eyebrow. "He's _ridiculous_." She sighed and checked to make Jeannie Rose hadn't run off or...something. She couldn't wait to get rid of the little menace. "And besides, I _deal_ with those kinds of people. He's just another, ah, _fish in the sea._" She grinned.

Here was a surprise. Cobblepot was, for once in his crooked (in more ways than one - she smiled) life, he was being genuine. That was rather worrisome; something serious must be bothering him. Jeanette snorted. Something besides, of course, the fact that he might now be a target of one of the most unpredictable, coldblooded killers in the city. "Sure, Ozzie," she finally said, after a moment of thought. "I'll go drop her off. Be back in just a moment." With that, she headed out of the Lounge.

The apartment seemed empty when she got back. She didn't bother looking for Napier, but left the girl in the bedroom, with a very stern, "Stay here until I get back, okay?" She eyed her for a moment to make sure she'd listen, gave up, and went back to the kitchen. There, she scribbled a quick note for Napier:

"Gone on business. Be back later today; if not, assume dead. Touch the girl and I'll remove your head." She set the paper on the table and turned to leave, then turned back, picked up the pen, and added with a grin, "Both of them."

. . .

Napier was glad that he had gone back to his apartment when he did. As he was leaving, he heard a car pulling up in the front, and when he peeked around the building to see who it was, he saw Officer Gordon getting out of his cruiser and starting into the apartment building. Napier grinned, turning away. Gordon would certainly be more than a little tipped off as to who had been behind the murder of the young nurse when he got up there and saw the blood-red HA HA HA's scrawled all over the walls, floor and ceiling.

He took all back alleys on his way to Jeanette's apartment, looking through his clothes to make sure he had everything. He pulled out his signature Joker outfit and looked it over, grinning slightly. He would have to change back into it as soon as he got to Jeanette's apartment. Showering between outfits was a hassle anyways, and he was sure no one would be there to mind him gallivanting around in his boxers until he had his outfit changed.

The doors were unlocked on the apartment building, and, with some kind of luck, he met no one on his way up. He went inside the apartment, slinging the clothes thoughtlessly onto the couch as he entered, folding his Joker outfit over his arm. He moved into the kitchen, intent on fixing himself up an easy meal of some kind – the only thing he had ingested all day was that morning's coffee, and he was starting to feel hungry. But as soon as he got into the kitchen, he noticed something sitting on the counter, and he picked it up.

"Gone on business," he read the note aloud. "Be back later today; if not, assume dead. Touch the girl and I'll remove your head." He snickered. "_Both_ of them," he finished. He grinned, setting the note down. "I think she likes me," he said, chuckling. Then he paused.

"Wait," he said, monotone. "Girl?"

He turned towards the bedroom, where the door was closed, and frowned slightly, suspicious. He moved slowly towards it, and, reaching out a hand, opened the door and looked inside. All of the dresses from the closet had been taken out and were strewn across the bed. Standing in front of the mirror, wearing one of the dresses, which was much too big for her, was the girl. He frowned slightly. "That doesn't look right on you," he said.

Jeannie Rose turned to face him, surprised. Then she frowned. "Your _face_ doesn't look right," she retorted.

Napier opened his mouth to reply, hesitated, then closed his mouth. "Tell you what," he finally said. "You can't stand me, I can't stand you… let's just agree to disagree." He indicated the bedroom. "This is _your_ little space," he said, "I won't come in here and bother _you…_" Then he indicated the rest of the apartment. "This is _my_ little space," he told her. "You don't come out here and bother _me. _Deal?"

Jeannie Rose twisted up her face, then nodded. "Deal," she said.

"Okay," Napier said, and closed the door. He sighed, leaning against it, and closed his eyes. "Finally, some peace," he said. He crossed his arms, a smile coming to his mouth. His moment was interrupted by a banging on the bedroom door.

"Hey stupid. I gotta pee."

Napier opened his eyes and a dark frown came to his face. "That's too damn bad," he told her. "This is _my_ part of the house." He paused. "Besides," he added, "aren't you wearing a diaper or something?"

"I'm five, not two!" she retorted through the door. "And I'm gonna pee on the floor if you don't let me out of here!"

"So pee on the floor!" Napier shot back. "See if I care." There was a long pause, and Napier grinned, smug. "That's what I _thought,_" he said.

"I'm gonna pee on the bed."

"What?!" Napier exclaimed. "You brat! I have to sleep on that!" He threw open the door to see Jeannie Rose standing in the doorway, looking up at him. There was a long moment of silence. Then he pointed towards the bathroom. "Well?" he asked.

She stared at him for a moment. Then she shrugged. "I don't have to pee anymore," she said airily.

Napier glared at her. "You," he said, pointing to her, "are going to _kill _me."


	38. Chapter ThirtySeven

Harvey Dent took a deep breath, then stretched, groaning, and grinned, looking over at Shawn, who had fallen asleep against his chest, enfolded in his arm. He sighed, smiling down at Shawn, then gently pressed his lips to the shaggy top of the other man's head. "Good morning, Sunshine," he said. He rested his cheek against Shawn's head, looking around the room, quite satisfied with himself. "Today's a school day," he said with a sigh.

He glanced down at Shawn again, then a wry smile crossed his face. "Hold on," he said, holding up a finger, "watch this." He raised his eyebrows at Shawn, devious, then turned to his bedside table and picked up his cell phone. He flipped the phone open, looked through his list of numbers, and finally decided on one. He put the phone to his ear, waiting as it dialled, and winked at Shawn. Then his face lit up with a sarcastic grin as he said, "Hey, Garcia. It's Harvey. Harvey Dent."

He listened for a moment, then nodded with a false laugh. "Yeah, I know, I know," he said, "I wouldn't be my biggest fan at the moment, either. Right. Right. Well, I can understand your frustration." He nodded again. "Oh, of course, Garcia. I understand. Right. Listen, uh, there's someone I'd like to ask you about." He listened for another moment, nodding, then cleared his throat. "Right, that one," he said. "Well, uh… you know your assistant, Shawn? Shawn Palmer, right." He nodded. "Well, he's going to be a little late coming into work today."

He paused for a long moment, listening. "Mm-hmm. Him. Well, you know how I'm the only one who knows that your wife left you because…" He paused. "Right. Because you insisted on wearing eye shadow." He paused again. "Sorry, _eyeliner,_" he corrected himself. "Well, now Shawn knows." He grinned over at Shawn. "No, I'm not kidding. You want to talk to him? No?" He laughed again, a falsely amiable laugh, and shrugged. "All right, well, you take care now, Garcia. Uh-huh. Goodbye."

He hung up the phone, stared at it for a moment, then looked back up at Shawn. "Well," he said, "now that _that's_ over…" He set the cell phone back onto the nightstand, then turned back to Shawn, folding him up in his arms and pressing his nose lovingly against Shawn's cheek. "We can get back to the _really_ important stuff," he said into his ear.

Shawn's eyes opened halfway, and he gazed blearily at the half-lit room he was in. He had a moment of disorientation, and he sat up in bed in a panic. Then he felt Harvey's arm slide off of his chest, and looked down to find the other man still asleep next to him, and he relaxed.

He looked around once more with a smile. For once in his long, anxious life, he was totally and completely calm. He heaved a sigh and looked back at Harvey. "Hey," he murmured, reaching out a hand to put it on his bicep, but realized that he was still asleep. Shawn hesitated, then folded his hands in his lap on top of the covers and looked down at them.

Why had this happened? He wasn't disappointed or anything it was...it was just so unexpected. Sure, he'd _dreamed_ about it. He flushed bright red, glanced at Harvey's bare chest, and looked immediately away. But good things like this didn't happen to him. He lay his head back on the pillow and tucked it under Harvey's chin, placing one hand on his slowly rising and falling chest. "Why? Why me?" he whispered, then shut his eyes to go back to sleep.

. . .

Bruce Wayne lifted his head with a sharp inhale, suddenly realizing that he had fallen asleep sitting next to Jessica's bed. He paused a moment, squinting, then shook his head, trying to clear it, and rubbed his eyes. He looked up, staring at Jessica, lying in the bed, and sighed. It was a little eerie, having a dead woman in his house, but he supposed there was really nothing that could have been done about it.

Wayne checked his Rolex. He would have to call in Gotham General to remove her on a stretcher, and then the local morgue to see if there was anything he could do to help with the funeral service. He let his hands fall back into his lap, and he looked back at Jessica. If he contributed money as an anonymous beneficiary, Fox would know who had given the money, but he would be unable to do anything about it. Then Wayne frowned. Even if he wanted to help, it seemed a little juvenile to push unwanted help onto a grieving relative.

If Fox felt the only way he could deal with grief was to push people away, then Wayne would have to live with that. He only wished Fox had not decided that he, Wayne, had been the one to blame for Jessica's death. There was no way he could have known the Joker was at large – much less that he could disguise himself and slip into Wayne Manor unnoticed.

It seemed almost too bizarre for Wayne to imagine. Then again, he admitted, Gotham was full of people who thought up things like that on a regular basis.

"You've decided to wake up, I see, Master Wayne."

Wayne turned in his chair to see Alfred standing in the doorway, holding a tray. He offered him a small, sad smile. "Hey, Alfred," he said with a sigh. Wayne got up from his seat and paused, staring at Jessica for a long moment. Then he turned to Alfred. "Fox can't really be all that mad at me, can he?" he asked. "You know him better than anybody. Is he really going to leave WayneTech?"

Alfred exhaled deeply, looking away. "Mister Fox is a very passionate man," he said. "He was very passionate about his work, and he very much loved Miss Jessica. Losing her was…" He paused, trying to think of how to say it. "Well, it would be like losing Miss Dawes, Sir," he said, looking back at Wayne. "If you can imagine."

Wayne's frown deepened. "No," he said, looking back at Jessica. "I can't… even imagine what life would be like without Rachel." There was a long silence. Then Wayne looked back at Alfred. "I have to help pay for the funeral," he said firmly.

Alfred took a deep breath, raising his eyebrows. "I think, Sir," he said candidly, "locking the Joker up for good would be a better way to get on Mister Fox's good side."

Wayne paused, then nodded his agreement. "I think you're right, Alfred," he said.

"Of course I am, Sir," said Alfred with a smile.

. . .

That hadn't been a good idea. Leaving those two together, without supervision; not a good idea at all. Jeanette stared unseeingly at the passing buildings as the cab driver screamed at whatever idiot driver he'd just cut off. The car jerked, and she grabbed the door handle. "Slow _down_, then," she told the driver, who turned to flick her off. She ignored him.

Napier and Jeannie Rose wouldn't do anything _really_ awful, she figured, hand resting on her pocket where her brand-new handgun sat snugly. She smiled down at it, then looked back out the window. Weren't parents and children, even ones who'd never met, supposed to have some sort of...connection, or something? Either way, hopefully her threat would be enough to make him toe the line.

If not...well, she had a gun now. She was safe.

Relatively.

Only fifteen minutes had passed since she'd left the Lounge, which was _very_ little, especially with Gotham traffic. So she fully expected Os to be duly impressed when she returned to the bar. "So where are we going on this little field trip?" she asked, again skipping a greeting. His urgent air was catching, but she kept herself calm. Wherever they were going, she had to assume it was safe. Well, safe enough. She didn't trust Os (as he himself had said earlier, that would ruin their entire dynamic), but she didn't distrust him, either. It took her a moment to realize that that made no sense, but she shook her head.

Cobblepot looked up when he heard her voice, and took a deep breath. "Come with me," he said, starting towards the back of the Lounge and indicating for her to follow. He put his hands in his pockets and glanced at her as they walked. "I would take a car, or a taxi cab," he told her, "but I thought it would be much more personal this way." He shrugged. "Besides, there's no one out there who will attack us without just cause. Between us, I'd say we look… pretty damn intimidating."

He smiled at her. Then he looked away again, pushing open the back door of the Lounge and letting her out before him. "Let me show you something, Jeanette," he said, letting the door close behind them. He started walking down the alley with her in his wake. "You think you know everything about the darker side of the world," he told her, "but I'm sure there are some things you aren't aware of."

Cobblepot looked down at his polished shoes, continuing on his way with Jeanette. "People aren't just scary because they wave around firearms and run gangs from some smoke-filled room," he told her. "There are scarier things to worry about. They may not seem like much at the moment… you're young, you're beautiful, you've got plenty of money in the bank…" He stopped, turning to face her. "But you won't always be that way."

He turned a corner, leading her out into a squalor of homelessness and dirt, where several ragged elderly people sat hunched around a garbage can, warming their gloved hands. Cobblepot stood, staring at them, and indicated them to Jeanette. "They used to be just like you," he told her. "They thought nothing could touch them. They were saving up for a luxurious retirement, paying off all their debts…" He shrugged, putting his hands back into his pockets. "Until Warren White took everything they owned."

Cobblepot turned to her. "He can do that, you know," he told her solemnly. "Take everything. And he can make sure that you are never able to get it back. He doesn't do it with a big light and sound show… he does it in the privacy of his offices, and no one has caught him at it yet, but everyone knows who it is." He looked back at the homeless people. "If you get on Warren White's bad side," he said, raising his eyebrows, "he will destroy you."

There was a long silence. Then he turned to her. "Have you ever seen a dog fight?" he asked. "Horrible things. Absolutely appalling." His frown deepened, and he looked back at the homeless people. "It's hard to believe people would do that for sport," he said quietly. He paused, then turned to her. "Come on," he said, indicating for her to follow again. "Let me show you just how awful the people in Warren White's innermost circle can be."

Cobblepot turned away, starting to walk away again, and waved for her to follow him down another side alley. "Come on," he said. "There's nothing more to see here."

Jeanette put her own hands in her pockets and stared at the defeated men for a moment. She felt...nothing, to be perfectly honest. Sympathy had always been a tough emotion for her, and a bunch of ragged homeless bums wasn't doing much.

But she knew that, logically, she should be worried. Everything Ozzie said might be doom and gloom, but he knew better than she. He, after all, had several more years in this squalid city than she did; he was plenty more experienced, in both the locale and crime itself. As much as she might hate to admit it.

And this Warren White fellow, Great White as he was known in the underground. She sighed and looked back at Os, with the slight dusting of sweat on his forehead. She'd have to meet White face-to-face sometime, and see how he had the criminals in Gotham tiptoeing around him like mice.

"Os..." she started, but ended up sighing and looking away. She couldn't say that to him. Any of it. All of that was so...trivial. He wouldn't care, as much as he might claim that he _liked_ her. So instead she shrugged. "I know I'm not invincible. I _know_," she said, "I'm not...untouchable. I'm going to be taken down some day. I'm going to die. Probably soon, with the line of work I'm in." She paused and looked at the sky. "But...that doesn't really matter to me. Don't get me wrong, I don't _want_ to die," she corrected herself, holding up her hands. "It just doesn't bother me. It happens to everyone eventually."

She smiled and looked back at the men. "But I'd like to spend my remaining years in happiness. Regardless of people like Warren White." She ended her explanation with a shrug, as if it really didn't matter, and followed him.

. . .

Eight cups of coffe. Eight _fucking_ cups of coffe, two energy bars, and twenty-seven hours without sleep, but it was all worth it. Thomas smiled hazily down at the freshly-printed paper for that morning. The headline? "Joker Still At Large: GCPD Incompetent?"

He sat back in his desk chair, nodding at a coworker who sped past with a hurried "nice!" Thank God he'd gotten that card to work the night before, so that the story could be this morning's paper. He tipped his ninth cup of coffe down his throat and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, scanning the article. This would light a few fires, maybe even start a few investigations. The story was practically an editorial, chronicling the Joker's activities and his appearance at the Iceberg Lounge the night before from Thomas' own point of view. The editors hadn't really seemed to care, though. It was his usual sort of story, the groundbreaking, behind-the-scenes stuff that really sold papers.

Hell, it was a story about the _Joker_. They'd take whatever they could get. Thank God they'd looked past Thomas'..._unsteady_ behavior. He would never have come back to work drunk, if it wasn't such a huge story. He grinned again and rubbed the stubble on his chin. He'd been given the rest of the day off, but he'd wanted to bask in his victory for a little while before he'd go home. Finally, he sighed contentedly, got up, and grabbed his briefcase.

It had been a long, _long_ day. Time to head home. As he exited his cubicle, he brushed a hand across the photograph of Emily tacked to the wall. _It's for you,_ he thought, pausing to inspect her face before continuing out. _It's all for you._

_. . ._

Harvey Dent tapped a pencil against the edge of his desk impatiently and checked his watch. He had finally decided it was time for him and Shawn to get out of bed and go to work, because, as he said, he could only go so far with blackmail. The truth was, he could go as far as he liked with all the blackmail he had collected from having friends from both sides of Gotham's societal spectrum, but he had arranged to meet up with Rachel, and he would not miss this meeting for the world.

He looked up eagerly as a knock came at his door, and grinned as his secretary came in. "Good morning," he said with a signature boxy grin. "What can I do you for?"

His secretary smiled politely. "You've got a visitor, Mister Dent," she said, opening the door to let someone behind her inside.

Harvey stopped tapping the pencil against his desk as Rachel Dawes entered his office. He smiled at her, and she smiled back. "Hey, Harvey," she said.

"Hey, Rachel," he replied. "Long time, no see."

Rachel tucked a lock of dark hair behind one ear and looked away, still smiling, though rather sheepishly. "Listen," she said, shrugging slightly, "I'm really sorry, Harvey. I just wasn't thinking before I spoke, that one time… What I said, about you and Batman –"

Harvey held up a hand, stopping her. "Don't worry about it," he said. A wry grin came to his face then. "What do you say you have dinner with me tonight and we call it even?" His smile widened. "And maybe we can even think about _dessert_ afterwards," he said, grinning seductively at her.

Rachel turned to look at him, a little thrown. Then a smile began to split her face. "Same old Harvey Dent," she said, chuckling. "Always got just one thing on his mind."

"_Work,_ of course," said Dent, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands behind his head.

Rachel giggled. "Of course," she replied.

. . .

White had hired a chauffeur because he felt he deserved one. He was the king of the Gotham underground, and Great White deserved to ride in style. At the moment, he sat in the back of the vintage white car and stared at Selina, who seemed to be deep in thought. She did that sometimes, he realized, when she was not mouthing off or primping herself. She would stare out the window, or just past someone, and get lost in thought. Of course, she always thought about the same thing, but it still amused White to ask.

"Penny for your thoughts," he said.

Selina looked at him, seeming peeved to have been pulled out of her thoughtful meditation. "A penny?" she scoffed. She looked away again. "You're going to have to pay higher than that to hear my thoughts." White raised his eyebrows, then pulled out his wallet and extracted a hundred-dollar bill, holding it out to Selina. She glanced over at him, looked at the bill, then took it and turned away again. "Bruce Wayne," she answered simply.

White chuckled. "I would've been disappointed if you'd answered differently," he told her, putting his wallet away again.

She sighed, ignoring his comments. Then she turned to him again. "I'm better than any lawyer hussy," she said, suddenly defensive, her lips pouty. "Don't you think?"

"Oh, definitely," said White. "Most definitely. _Much_ better."

Selina turned away again. "Well, it really doesn't matter what _you_ think, Warren," she said, raising her eyebrows. "It only really matters what Bruce Wayne thinks. And thus far, he's shown absolutely no interest in me whatsoever." She sniffed, lifting her chin. "He just hasn't had the chance," she assured herself.

White nodded, looking away. There was a long pause. Then he turned back to Selina. "You know," he said, "I bet I could get you into one of Bruce Wayne's exclusive parties… if you want."

Selina looked over at him in interest. "Oh, really?" she asked. "How's that?"

White grinned. "I have my ways," he said slyly. "But it won't be free."

Selina looked away again. "Of course," she said bitterly. "Nothing ever is, with you."

"Now, that's not _entirely_ true, darling," White said. "Just… _mostly_ true." He grinned at her. "It's a simple thing, Selina," he assured her, taking her hand.

"Oh, like _last_ time?" she asked, pulling her hand away. "It's easy, Selina. Just break into this museum and get me that precious diamond." She looked at him, then turned away again. "Why can't you just use my _feminine wiles_ to your advantage, for a change?" she asked. "Instead of always my burglary skills. Stealing things for you is getting _old,_ Warren."

He paused, considering her statement, then nodded. "All right," he said, "that sounds reasonable to me." He looked back at her. "How good are your _feminine wiles,_ Selina?" he asked.

She turned to him, grinning wryly. "I can get a man to do _anything I want,_" she said seductively, leaning towards him and batting her eyelashes.

He grinned slyly at her. "Perfect," he said.

. . .

Napier pulled on his green vest over his peculiarly patterned blue shirt and buttoned it, smoothing it down to make sure it was not too badly wrinkled from being tossed around earlier. He picked up his tie from the couch and looped it around his neck, tying it tightly and pulling it through, securing it around his neck in the fashion he had learned from countless times of repetition. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his pinstripe purple pants with a satisfied sigh, and turned back to his clothing, considering putting on the coat as well, but decided against it.

He was still in leisure mode. He would put the coat on later, when he put on the makeup. He did not really need to wear the heavy thing all the time – only when it was necessary for theatrical effect.

He fell back onto the couch, leaning his head back against the cushions and closing his eyes. "Mm," he said with a deep exhale. "Quiet." He paused a moment, smiling slightly, and then the smile started to slowly fade from his face. He opened his eyes. "_Too_ quiet," he said flatly.

He sat up from the couch and glanced over in the direction of the bedroom, frowning suspiciously. One part of him told him that he should go check up on the girl, to see if she was all right. The other part of him said that it was a stupid idea, and was only a sign of weakness. What did he care if the brat was all right or not? She was probably asleep, he reasoned. He leaned back against the couch again, closing his eyes and folding his hands over his ribcage. "She's fine," he assured himself.

Then he opened his eyes again. "But I should make sure," he said. He paused again, conflicted. "No," he said, "I don't _care._" He closed his eyes, crossing his ankles, and settled down into a more comfortable position on the couch. Then he frowned, eyes still closed, and let out an annoyed sigh. "Jeanette will kill me if something happens to her," he told himself. He opened his eyes, sitting upright on the couch. "I should check," he said, getting up. "But only so Jeanette won't kill me."

Napier crossed to the bedroom door and lifted a hand to knock, hesitated, then decided against it. He put an ear to the door, listening, but all he heard was faint rustling coming from inside. He frowned slightly. Then he cracked open the door and peeked inside.

Jeannie Rose was spinning in front of the mirror, wearing a long skirt that was much too big for her and flowed past her ankles. On a grown woman, it would have gone just past the knees, but on the little girl it looked like a ball gown. She looked at her reflection, smiling away, and curtsied to herself, giggling at the way the dress fit. Napier found himself smiling faintly as he watched her examining the way she looked in the dress.

He quietly opened the door and stepped inside, careful not to disturb the little girl. She was looking down at her feet, lifting the skirt to see her little pink shoes. He crossed to the bed and silently sat down, folding his hands between his knees and watching her, smiling ever so slightly. He could not help himself. Jeannie Rose looked back up in the mirror, and he saw her face reflected back at him, framed in honey waves, her rosy cheeks lit up with fervour, her dark eyes full of life.

He turned his head slightly, looking at her. Then he looked down at the clothes she had laid out on the bed. In amongst all of the black skirts, blouses, and evening dresses, there was a single piece of periwinkle clothing. He frowned slightly, pulling it out and looking at it. It was a modest piece of clothing; there was nothing fancy about it, and it did not seem to be expensively made. But there was something intriguing about it. He passed the dress between his hands, trying to figure out what it was. Then he pressed the dress to his face and inhaled.

There it was. That familiar scent. He would recognize that scent anywhere. That was the scent of –

"What are you doing?"

He dropped the dress into his lap and looked down at the little girl, who was looking at him strangely, her face twisted up in confusion. There was a long silence between the two. Then he cleared his throat. "I was looking at this dress," he finally said, holding it up for her to see. He paused, then let the dress drop back into his lap. "That's all," he told her.

Jeannie Rose looked at the dress, then back at him. "It won't fit you," she told him.

He considered snapping back at her, but paused. Then he smiled and chuckled lightly, shaking his head. "No," he said, looking down at the dress. "I don't suppose it would." He looked back up at her. She looked surprised by his answer. "But it doesn't fit you too well either," he told her.

She stared at him for a moment. Then she cocked her head slightly. "It'll fit me in a couple years," she said, looking back at her reflection in the mirror, at the long black dress she wore. "My mommie says so." She spun in front of the mirror, looking at how the dress billowed around her feet. Napier watched her. Then she turned back to him. "My mommie's been gone for a long time," she said. "She was going to go somewhere yesterday to meet up with somebody, but... she never came back."

Napier frowned slightly. "Where was she going?" he asked. "Who was she going to meet up with?"

Jeannie Rose shrugged, looking down at her shoes. "I dunno where she was going," she said, swishing the end of the dress. Then she looked back up at him. "But everyone kept talking about this guy... Naper."

Napier frowned. "Naper?" he asked. "Who's Naper?"

Jeannie Rose looked back at her shoes. "Ionno," she said, quieter. "Everybody's looking for Naper."

Napier looked back down at the dress in his lap, thinking. Then he looked back up at Jeannie Rose. "Was it _Naper,_" he said slowly, "or... Napier?"

"That's him!" said Jeannie Rose, looking up suddenly. "Napier. Jack Napier."

He stared at her, shocked. She went back to looking at her reflection in the mirror, swishing the end of the dress around her ankles. "Jack?" he asked, slightly hoarse. "Jack... Napier?"

"Yeah," she said with a careless sigh, twirling in front of the mirror. "Something about him."

"Wait." He caught hold of her arm, stopping her from spinning, and she looked up at him in surprise. "Your mommie was going to go to the Iceberg Lounge yesterday to meet up with... Jack Napier?"

She paused, thinking, then nodded. Then she looked at her wrist. "Let go," she said.

He was too shocked to hear her words. "But..." He looked away, at the dress sitting on the bed. Then he looked back at Jeannie Rose. "What..." The words stuck in his throat. He swallowed hard. "What... is your mommie's name?" he asked, hoarse.

Jeannie Rose frowned slightly, looking up at him. "Mommie," she answered.

"No, no, I mean..." He closed his eyes, putting a hand to his forehead. Then he looked back at Jeannie Rose. "What's your mommie's _real_ name?" he asked.

She frowned even deeper, staring at him. "Kitty," she said. Then she looked at her wrist again. "Please let go," she repeated.

But he did not let go. He just stared at her. "K-Kitty?" he asked, his mouth dry. He felt himself tearing up. He bit his lip, trying to keep his emotions in check as he stared at Jeannie Rose. She looked up at him, staring into his eyes, and suddenly he saw his own eyes looking back at him. Then he shook his head, letting go of her wrist and turning away. "No," he said, standing, not looking at the little girl. "No... No!"

Jeannie Rose looked up at him, confused. "Are _you_... Jack Napier?" she asked.

He turned back to her, looking down at the little girl staring up at him who looked so much like himself. "Yes," he said, his voice shaking. "But..." He stared at her for a long moment, then turned away again, his hands going to his head, gripping his hair and closing his eyes.

Her brow furrowed as she looked up at him. "D..." she began to say, but stopped. "D-Daddy?"

Napier shook his head, clenching his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut. "No," he said firmly. "No... no, _not_ Daddy." He turned back, looking down at her, his breathing getting heavier, and he frowned darkly. "Don't call me Daddy," he said. "I'm _not_ your Daddy." He turned away from her again, his hands going to his face, and he sat heavily down on the bed. "I'm _not_ your Daddy," he said quietly.

Jeannie Rose stared up at him, confused. "Daddy...?" she asked, putting a hand on his knee.

"NO!" He pulled her hand off his knee and stood, moving away from her. "I'm not your father! Stop calling me that!" He looked up and saw his reflection in the full-length mirror. He stared at himself for a long moment. Then, with a loud, feral growl, he crossed to the mirror and, lifting a fist, smashed it in. He did not want to see the resemblance between them. He was not this little girl's father, of that he was sure. He turned back to look at her, his hand bloody. She was staring at him in horror, the start of tears in her eyes.

"But..." she said, her lip trembling, "my mommie always said that Jack Napier was my daddy!"

"I'm not your Daddy!" he shouted, indicating himself, spattering his suit with blood. "You are _not_ my child! My child is a _boy!_ Kitty said so! She... she _said_ so!"

Jeannie Rose shook her head, tears running down her face, clinging to her mother's dress. "No, Daddy!" she sobbed. "I'm a _girl!_"

Napier screamed in rage and moved to the bed, grabbing the nightstand and smashing it. Then he picked up one of the dresses from off of the bed and tore it in half. "You are not my child!" he shouted at the little girl. He grabbed the bed underneath the frame on one side and, with a heave, flipped it up onto its side. "Look at me!" he shouted at her. "Do you really think you could even _possibly_ be related to me?! _Look_ at me!"

Jeannie Rose covered her face with the dress, sobbing. "Daddy, _stop_ it!" she screamed.

Napier put a hand to his face, making sure he was not crying as well. "STOP IT!" he roared. "STOP CALLING ME DADDY!" He put his other hand to his head, running them through his hair. He let out a loud scream of frustration and confusion, then turned to the closet and, tearing it open, pulled out all the dresses and started tearing them, throwing them around the room. Jeannie Rose ran to him and clung to his pants-leg, sobbing into it.

"STOP!" she screamed. "PLEASE, _PLEASE STOP!_"

He looked down at her, snarling, and grabbed her up by the back of her dress, lifting her into the air. "You," he said, dangerous, "are _not_ my child." He glared at her for a long moment, his breathing heavy, then he let her down. He put his hands to his face and gave a dry sob. Then, taking a deep breath, he took his hands from his face, cleared his throat, and shook his head savagely, like a dog shaking water. "My child is dead," he said in a strange, distant voice. "But at least I can still save my wife."

He turned back to Jeannie Rose, who was staring at him, tears streaming down her face, clinging to her mother's periwinkle dress, which he had not destroyed. He glared at her for a long moment, then snatched the dress from her grip. "This doesn't belong to you," he hissed. And with that, he put it over his arm and walked out, making sure to slam the door of the apartment behind him.

Jeannie Rose ran into the living-room after him, but he had left by the time she got there. She stared at the door for a long moment, waiting, but when he did not come back, her face split into a tearful grimace again, and she turned away, looking down at the dress she wore.

"Mommie," she sobbed, pressing the skirt to her face. "Mommie..."

. . .

Cobblepot took a turn down a dark alley, glancing behind him to see if Jeanette was following. When he was satisfied he had not lost her, he turned back and started for the end of the alley. At the end of the alleyway was a dingy metal door, which did not look as if it led anywhere spectacular. Cobblepot knocked on the door, and a little panel slid aside to reveal a set of slitted eyes. "Oswald Cobblepot," said Cobblepot, indicating himself. Then he indicated Jeanette. "And guest," he added.

The slitted eyes stared at Jeanette for a moment, then the little window closed. Cobblepot waited a moment, then the lock clicked back on the door and it opened to reveal a dimly lit, smoky back room of sorts. A little further in, the sounds of voices and dogs barking could be heard. Cobblepot glanced back at Jeanette, unsmiling, then turned and started in to the room. The man standing at the door glared at the two of them as they entered, then quickly shut the door behind them.

Cobblepot entered the back room, where a larger number of gangsters than he had expected were all gathered around a large, circular cage. From inside the cage, the sound of snarling and barking could be heard. Cobblepot glanced at Jeanette, then moved with her to the front of the crowd. He pointed out Warren White, who was standing at one edge of the ring, holding onto the chain leash of a large, rabid-looking Doberman. Cobblepot frowned darkly. "That's his prize fighter," he told her. "Never lost a match." He shook his head, glancing over across the ring at a heavy-set gangster, also holding onto the leash of a large, angry Doberman. "But they certainly try," he said with a sigh.

The heavy-set gangster unclipped his chain from the dog's leash and released it into the ring. The Doberman snarled, foaming at the mouth, and barked loudly at the opposition, its eyes wild as it pawed at the ground, shifting between its feet as it waited impatiently for its opponent. Warren White grinned, holding his own rearing, barking dog back by its chain, then, bending down, removed the chain from the dog's collar. White's dog bounded into the ring, grabbing the other dog by the throat and tackling it to the ground.

The other dog whimpered, snarling back as White's dog tore at its throat. "Get that son of a bitch!" White cried from the sidelines, punching a fist into the air as the two dogs tore apart, snarling at each other, circling one another in the ring. "Rip 'im apart!"

"Get that fucker! Tear 'is head off!" the gangster shouted, kicking at the chain fence around the dog ring. White's dog snarled and leaped for the other dog, but the other dog dodged and White's dog missed, sliding across the dirt floor into the wall of the ring. The other dog leapt for him and grabbed his ear, ripping it open, spraying the dusty floor with blood. White's dog howled in pain, shaking its head, then turned around and closed its jaws on the other dog's hind leg, snapping the bone.

The gangster's dog let out a howl of pain and whimpered in agony, trying to limp back to its master, but White's dog would not back down. It leapt forward, grabbing hold of the other leg and biting down on it as well, snapping the other leg bone. "Get your mutt off my dog!" the gangster shouted, bursting into the ring and grabbing the collar of his wounded dog, but White just laughed as his dog grabbed hold of the gangster's pants-leg and started to drag him back into the ring. "Get it off me!" the gangster exclaimed, hitting at White's bleeding dog with his fist. "Get your fuckin' dog _off_ me!"

"He _likes_ you, Smitty," White laughed, clapping his hands. Then he whistled, and the dog let go of the gangster's leg and moved back to White's side of the ring, panting heavily and watching as the gangster dragged his wounded dog and himself shamefully out of the ring. White smirked. "Better luck next time, aye, Smitty?" White said, puffing at his Cuban cigar. Smitty glared at him, but said nothing.

Cobblepot frowned darkly, looking over at Jeanette. "And that's just the start of it," he said quietly.

"Cobblepot!" White threw out his hands, grinning at Cobblepot, his cigar smoking at the side of his mouth as he made his way through the thin crowd towards him. Cobblepot frowned, turning slightly to Jeanette.

"Don't say anything he might take offense at," he said in barely above a whisper. "Just stay calm."

"Oswald Cobblepot," said White as he got right up to the two of them, taking his cigar from his mouth and grinning at Cobblepot, sleazy as ever. "I'll be damned. I didn't know you was into this kinda sport."

"I'm not," said Cobblepot with a false smile. "I was simply showing my acquaintance here what you do, Warren."

"Oh, I got a fan, huh?" White laughed, tapping the ashes from the end of his cigar. "Well, that's okay, doll, get in line. You ain't the first, an' you won't be the last, trust me." He put the cigar back between his teeth, looking her up and down, and his eyebrows went up slightly. "You ain't bad, you know that?" he said, grinning at her. "Look like you got some money of your own. You kill your lover for it?"

"She's from a wealthy business family, Warren," said Cobblepot, waving his question off slightly. "Oh, and speaking of which, where is Selina? I never see you without her."

"Huh?" White's attention snapped back to Cobblepot, and a slight frown crossed his face as he puffed on his cigar distractedly. "Oh, Selina, sure. She's out, prob'ly wastin' my money shopping for shoes or something. I dunno. I'm never really sure of where she is, even when she's sittin' right next to me." He shrugged, taking the cigar from between his teeth and letting out a deep exhale. "But she's a good girl," he said, nodding. "She's good to have around."

"I see," said Cobblepot, frowning. It was suspicious that White was unsure of where his biggest investment and latest arm candy was, when Cobblepot usually never saw them apart. What was even more suspicious was how nonchalant White was being about it. It was uncharacteristic. But he was not going to ask questions, because he wanted to be as much on White's good side as possible. He smiled slightly at White. "Well, this has been interesting," he said, "but we really must be going. We have places to be, and…" He trailed off, shrugging. "We have to be there," he said, failing to find a better ending for his statement.

White's cigar returned slowly to his teeth as he looked between Cobblepot and Jeanette with slitted grey eyes, and his lips closed around it as he puffed thoughtfully at the cigar. "Is that so?" he asked. Cobblepot nodded, uncomfortable. White nodded as well, looking between them. Then he leaned down to Cobblepot. "She your girl, Cobblepot?" he asked in a low voice. "I ain't lookin' t' fuck her if she is. Just lookin'."

Cobblepot let out a slight, relieved breath and smiled at White. "Oh, no," he said, shaking his head. "I'm still together with Maggie, for the most part. She's just an acquaintance." He glanced over at Jeanette, grinning. Then he looked back at White. "But we really must be going now," he said, turning away and putting a hand on Jeanette's arm, leading her away as well. "We're already late for where we're going, and we shouldn't be any later, if we can help it!"

White watched as the two exited the room, going out through the rusty door, and took the cigar from his mouth, staring after them with slitted eyes. "He knows something," he said in a low voice. "And she… I don't trust her one bit." He shook his head slightly, still staring after where they had disappeared. "Not one bit," he said slowly, returning the cigar to his teeth.

As they walked away, Jeanette shot a cursory glance back towards White. Oh, he was a _card_ she thought, the polite smile plastered on her face cracking just a bit. When they were out of earshot, she finally leaned over to Os. "Your girl?" she hissed quietly, looking around the alley and keeping her temper quite well, considering the circumstances. "Charming guy. And do remind my _why_ no one's slit his throat yet?"

She sighed and answered her own question. "Oh, right, because he _owns_ this city." She wanted to punch something. No, shoot someone. White was pretty damn lucky she had something occupying her time at the moment, or she might have been tempted to make him her next job. Free of charge.

Hell, maybe she'd give it a shot _now_, no pun intended. She'd have to be careful, more so than usual. She didn't really want those in Gotham's underbelly loyal to White out for her blood. Maybe she could find out where he lived, and take him out there...

She finally shook her head, realizing that she'd gotten distracted and they'd reached the Lounge. "I'd better go check on the girl, and make sure that idiot didn't do anything," she said, mostly to herself. She put her hands on Ozzie's shoulders and considered him for a moment. "You know," she said, then hesitated. Finally, she sighed. "Don't get too torn apart about this. You'll be fine." She smiled. "I'll make sure of it. Alright?" With that, she left the Lounge.


	39. Chapter ThirtyEight

Thomas wanted a drink.

He'd been milling around his apartment, not sure of what to do but not wanting to return to work when he'd been given a perfectly good day off. That thought stopped him cold, however. He looked up at the floor-length mirror on the wall nearby, and frowned at what he saw. His clothing (casual, since he wasn't going back to work today) was wrinkled; he'd forgotten to iron his latest batch of wash. There were dark bags hanging under his eyes, which were clouded with an exhausted look. He hadn't even shaved that day, and had no desire to now.

He was slipping again. He ground his knuckles into his eyes and sighed, then took a seat on the couch. What would Emily say if she could see him now? "Clean up your act, Thomas. What's happened to you, Thomas? You're going to become an alcoholic, Thomas." That's what. He looked over at her picture, sitting in a solitary frame on his paper-ridden desk. She smiled out at him; he could almost hear her voice scolding him for becoming so lax.

Finally, he stood up and crossed to the kitchen. There he looked for a long moment at a piece of paper stuck to the fridge with a magnet. "Alcoholics Anonymous: Confidential help for anyone and everyone who needs it." He hesitated, looked down at the meeting times listed on the paper, and nodded to himself. There was a meeting tonight with the local chapter downtown. It would be embarassing, and quite possibly terrifying, but he needed to go.

It's what Emily would want him to do.

. . .

Kitty had retreated into the bathroom that morning when she had been feeling ill, and Crane had let himself in as well and had watched her be sick in the sink. It had been a discomforting and very strange experience, but Kitty had said nothing. She supposed it was just something he did to prove a point, both to himself and to her, though she could not see how his obsessive nature was making the matter any better. Then again, Kitty could not claim to know anything about how the mind of the doctor worked.

Kitty turned and looked at her reflection in the mirror, her pale face, pink lips, tired blue eyes, her limp brown hair falling into her face. She sniffed, standing straight, and looked herself up and down. The black dress she had gotten as a present from Jeanette made her feel a little better, but not much. Although Jeanette knew that Crane moved around, there was no way she could know exactly where Crane was – or where he was going. He was irrational, sporadic, and, she had to admit to herself, utterly mad. There was no method to Crane's madness – which was one of the things that scared Kitty the most about him.

He had insisted they remain in the bathroom, talking, after she had finished being sick. She had said that there was nothing to talk about; he had disagreed. He wanted to talk about her plans for life after he was through with her. She had looked at him, dead serious, and frowned darkly at him. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?" she had asked.

He had grinned coldly. "I think you know what it means, Kitty," he had said, lifting his eyebrows and staring at her over the top of his glasses.

She had turned away at this. "I don't think I will _have_ a life after you're... through with me," she had answered candidly.

He had seemed surprised at this. "You mean you intend to stay?" he asked.

She turned and glared at him. "No," she had answered. "I think you intend to kill me after I have your child."

And that had been the truth, what Kitty was terrified of. Crane's words had hit home with her; no one would be looking for her. Jeanette had no idea where to look, and she could not exactly go to the police for help. Kitty's supposed husband, Jack Napier, would not, she was sure, be ecstatic to drop what he was doing and chase after a ghost.

Charles flipped the phone over in his hand, snapping it open and shut restlessly as he paced the alley. Crane still hadn't emerged from their hideout, and it was practically midday by now. He ducked back inside the door, saw that Flicker was just waking up, and immediately went back outside. He was _not_ in the mood to deal with the little hellion, even with his natural high.

And why was he in such a good mood? Because of the little act of justice he'd performed the night before. He still got the chills from the helpless look on that stranger's face as he died in the gutter. Charles grinned and continued pacing.

The cell phone in his hand might have had something to do with it, of course.

Finally, he went inside and called out, "Crane, I found something interesting."

Flicker awoke at the sound of Goodhart's voice. Her eyes opened slowly, sluggishly, and she felt like she hadn't slept in weeks. She put a hand to her aching head. What the hell had happened yesterday...?

Right. Kitty. She slumped back down for a moment. Why didn't she care that they'd gotten Kitty back? Two days ago, she'd have been all torn up about it, for no fucking reason other than the chick reminding her of her brother. It was like...like some sort of _defense mechanism_, she thought, getting to her feet with a yawn and a stretch. When things got bad, her apathy kicked in.

Well, that was nothing to be concerned about. It was helpful, for god's sake. So instead she turned her attention to Goodhart, who was shouting for their fearless leader.

"Yeah, get your skinny ass out here," she added, looking sideways at Goodhart with a crooked smile. God only knew what he'd found - probably a shiny piece of plastic, or something - but she was in the mood for irritating Crane either way. She called in a far too cheerful shout when he didn't appear instantly, "Enough with the fucking _feargasms_, Doc, we need to chat with you." She looked back to find Goodhart staring at her. "Sorry, _Monkey-man_ needs to chat with you." She danced out of the way in time to avoid his fist, which cracked the wall, and skipped off to the other side of the room with a smile at his growl.

Crane looked up at the sound of Goodhart calling his name, frowning slightly. It was not like the big man to talk in quite such a civilized manner; in fact, Crane was beginning to doubt the man had any kind of intelligence about him whatsoever. Then again, he was always happy to be surprised, especially when the surprises were to his aid. He glanced back at Kitty, staring at her, then got to his feet. "I'll be right back," he told her. "Don't go anywhere."

Kitty stared after him, holding her hair away from her face as she stood hunched over the bathroom sink. She paused, then wrapped her arms around her stomach and leaned back against the wall of the bathroom, staring at her sad reflection in the dingy bathroom mirror.

"I'm going to die," she said quietly, a tear rolling down her cheek.

Crane emerged from the back room, looking for Goodhart, and found him easily, trying to get a good swipe at Flicker. A slight cold smirk turned up the corners of his mouth, but he quickly cleared it from his face. "What did you want to show me, Goodhart?" he asked, cutting over the scuffle. He moved to Goodhart, staring up at the man's face. Then a distinctive, slightly bitter scent caught his attention, and he turned away from Goodhart, following the scent.

"What..." he began quietly, stepping outside, and stopped short when he saw the corpse laying in the street. He stared at it for a long moment, his brow furrowing slightly, and then started slowly towards it, staring at the face of the young man who lay dead in the gutter. Two bullet-wounds marked his body, and the distinctive, searing scent that had caught Crane's attention was the blood that spilled from the young man's body, staining the street. He stood by the body, staring down at the young man, and he sighed, putting his hands into his pockets and staring at the corpse with a look of detached disinterest.

"Poor boy," he said, his voice cold. "He was so helpful, that once..." He turned back to Goodhart, staring at him coldly. "And then you had to go and kill him," he said, his tone airy.

Crane glanced at the young man again, then turned back to Goodhart. "This means we're going to have to move again," he said, taking his hands from his pockets and folding them behind his back. He paused, staring at Goodhart, then held out his hand. "You wanted to show me something?" he asked.

Charles dropped the cell phone into Crane's open hand and turned away. Even if the other man hadn't said anything, his condescending tone was too much to ignore. When he spoke next, there was an edge in his voice. "Just figured we might need someone new to help us find Napier," he explained. "Apparently, that young man knew my daughter."

He added, "Unsurprisingly," under his breath, recalling the thick smell of alcohol that had been hanging off of the boy the night before. It would be just like that little demon-spawn to get involved with the wrong people.

Crane frowned as Goodhart dropped the phone into his outstretched palm. If he had been expecting something, it had not been this. He opened the phone, flattening his nose in disgust as he perused the buttons. It was so like Maria and those associated with her to buy into the technological nonsense that was sweeping Gotham, thanks to WayneTech and its super-intelligent associates.

He slitted his eyes at the phone, his mouth drawing into a taught line as he tried to figure out how it worked. "It would stand to reason he would know her," he drawled, slowly pressing a few buttons. "Seeing as he directed us to her apartment."

Flicker risked coming close again to get a better look at the phone, then glanced back up at Goodhart. "Wait, so that guy...hey, he was the one who helped us find her apartment!" She nodded to herself and glanced out the door at the body in the street. _That_ was where she remembered him from...

She took out her lighter and flipped it between her hands. "So what's the phone got to do with anything?" she asked.

Charles looked up at her. Maybe he hadn't thought this through well enough. "We could...call her," he pointed out.

Crane frowned and snapped the phone shut, closing his hand around it and holding it slightly away from his body as he looked up at Goodhart in disdain. "Call her?" he asked, cocking his head with a cold, sarcastic grin. He chuckled, looking away and shaking his head. "We could," he said bitingly, looking back at Goodhart, his eyes narrowed behind his glasses, "if we wanted to lose her – and Napier – forever."

"Jesus _Christ_, Goodhart, you're an idiot," Flicker supplied after a moment of silence, rolling her eyes. "O-kay, so we call her...and say what, exactly?" Goodhart frowned. Flicker tried to elaborate. "'Oh, hey, honey, it's your dad! I just wondered where you were staying so that I could come kill you.'" She looked at Crane helplessly. "Why the fuck do you keep him around?"

Crane looked away, back at Flicker, and looked her up and down. "I keep him around," he said slowly, "because I keep hoping that one day, he'll kill you." He glanced back at Goodhart, staring at him, and sighed. "And I keep being disappointed," he said airily. Then, flipping the phone back open, he walked away from the two of them, back into the warehouse.

He had to think of a place for them to stay. It was getting harder and harder, what with his reputation, and he was sure the GPD was finally getting the brilliant idea to circulate his picture, so that anyone who ran any kind of honourable business would know his face – and his record. He snapped the phone closed again, stopping in his tracks to sigh heavily. Sometimes he wondered if it was even worth the trouble... his main focus had shifted so suddenly when he had discovered Kitty's pregnancy that he wondered if he even wanted to find Napier anymore. He stared down at the phone in his hand.

He may not want to find Napier anymore, but he could not resist the temptation to fuck with Maria's mind. It was just too much fun to pass up.

He turned, glancing over towards the bathroom as a cold grin began to creep up the corners of his mouth. He knew that Kitty knew Maria, and that Maria knew Kitty, because the one time they had stumbled across this young man – or, rather, he had quite literally stumbled across them – she had begged him to tell Maria that Kitty and Jeannie Rose were in trouble. He slowly opened the phone, wondering if the message was ever delivered. If it had been, then Maria already knew that Kitty was in some kind of peril at the hands of a madman. If not...

Well, he reasoned, if not, Kitty could be the first to tell her.

Crane looked up, moving into the bathroom and looking around for Kitty. He found her sitting on the floor, her knees pulled up to her chest, her slender arms wrapped around her small form. He stared at her for a long moment, trying to discern what it was her pitiable state made him feel. It was not pity, because he had no idea what pity felt like, and this felt somewhat familiar. He frowned slightly, watching her, then shook his head, giving up. Whatever it was, it was sure to come to him at a later time, when he actually cared about discerning his feelings. It had never been his strong point.

He cleared his throat, and Kitty looked up at him, her face stained with tears. She sniffed, wiping at her eyes with the palm of her hand, and then stared up at him. "Yes?" she asked.

Crane held out the phone towards her. "I need for you to call an old friend," he told her. He smirked at her. "I don't have to tell you to sound convincing."

. . .

Maria paced a few steps along the edge of the kitchen table, glaring down at the city map spread out before her. She had a few spots marked with red, places where the Joker had been, or was thought to have been...

It wasn't helpful.

She sighed in irritation. Of _course_ he'd have to be one of those disappearing types. She was going to go insane just trying to _find_ him. She pushed her hands through her hair, pulling it back tightly against her scalp, then breathed sharply out and inspected the red dots again. The gala, her apartment, the abandoned train station, the Iceberg Lounge...There was nothing in common. Napier was exactly what the papers were making him out to be: a crazy, unpredictable psychopath who did and went what and where he pleased.

Suddenly, her phone rang. She looked up at it with a glare, then back down at the map for a moment. Finally, she sighed and crossed the room. Maybe it was Gordon, calling with information. Or maybe she was ridiculously desperate.

She picked up the receiver and put it against her ear, walking back to the city map with one hand's nails in her mouth. "Hullo?" she mumbled, already intent again on her map.

. . .

"Maria?" Kitty sniffed, staring at Crane, who was kneeling in front of her, his eyes boring into hers relentlessly. She looked away, huddling up her shoulders slightly as she tried to make herself as small as possible against the wall. "Maria, it's Kitty. Listen… I don't have much time to talk, but…" She looked back at Crane, who raised his eyebrows expectantly. Kitty swallowed. "I-I'm in trouble," she stuttered quietly. "I don't know what they intend to do, but… please, I need your help."

Then Kitty took a breath, suddenly intent. "There's this woman, she has Jeannie Rose, please, I need you to find her, I need to know if my daughter's okay -" But before she could finish her statement, Crane took the phone from her hands and put it to his own ear.

"Hello, Maria," he said with a cruel smirk. "It's been a while since we've spoken. Oh, don't pretend you don't know who this is." He chuckled coldly. "All you need to know is this. I have Kitty. I want Napier. I assume you know where he is. All you have to do is tell me where I can find him, and Kitty goes free."

"It's a lie, he's lying, Maria, don't do it!" Kitty exclaimed. Crane raised a hand to strike her, and Kitty cringed away. Crane slowly lowered his hand, turning back to the phone.

"Disregard that, it was nothing," he said quickly, turning away from Kitty and moving outside of the bathroom. "All you need to know is that I have Kitty, and if you want her to be safe, you'll bring me Jack Napier." He paused, listening. "Oh, don't worry, we'll talk again," he said with a cold smile. "And I have this feeling you'll be able to find me when you need to." Then he hung up the phone.

Crane paused a moment, staring down at the phone in his hand, and sighed. Then he turned back and went back into the bathroom. Kitty stared up at him from the floor, wiping her eyes with her palm, and frowned at him. "You didn't tell her that her friend was dead?" she asked quietly.

Crane sneered. "It was unimportant," he said coldly.

"He was her _friend_," Kitty replied quietly, her expression turning into one of slightly shocked confusion.

Crane shrugged. "He was useless," he said. "If you ask me, that lug did her a favour, killing him." He stared at the phone in his hand, then slipped it into his pocket and turned away. "We should start moving," he said with a disdainful exhale. He glanced back at her. "And I know just where we'll be going."

. . .

Maria dropped the phone, which clattered to the floor with a crash.

Kitty was alive.

Some stranger had Jeannie Rose.

Crane wanted her to find Napier.

She sat down heavily and put her head in her hands.

What the fuck was she supposed to do? She'd been worked to the edge of her sanity, all to find two psychotic killers, and her apartment was blown to pieces, and her dog had been killed, and...and...How had he gotten her number in the first place?!

She started crying.

Any normal person would probably just give up at this point. Run screaming out of the hotel, go to the police, and tell them everything that had happened. But Gordon had let her down too many times before; why should now be any different? It wasn't like he'd be able to help, anyways. She didn't know where Crane was, she didn't know where Napier was (and, if she did, she'd have killed him herself by now). He didn't know anything more than she did.

As far as she knew, that was. She sniffed and brought her head back up. Maybe she'd check the police station, just in case. She grabbed the phone and checked to make sure it was still working, then dialed the work number that Gordon had given her. If they didn't have any information, she'd have to figure this out herself.

Because, at this point, she was the only person she could really rely on.

Gordon stared at the headline of that morning's paper, his cup of coffee getting cold in his hand as he bristled angrily underneath his moustache. That rat bastard Hale had done it again, setting up the GPD to look like some kind of joke – which was ironic, seeing as the loon who was supposedly tripping them up called himself the Joker. If he had not been so incensed, Gordon would have laughed at the irony. As it was, he was in no kind of mood for laughing. Things were just going from bad to worse.

Gordon set down the paper on his desk and looked over the endless amounts of sticky notes that were spread out on the desktop. He picked one up. It was the date and time for the funeral of Officer Kent, who had been found dead just outside the police station. Gordon tossed the sticky note back onto his desk angrily. That Joker fellow must be some kind of cocky, to kill someone – a policeman, no less – right outside the police station.

Gordon set down his cup of coffee, realizing he was not going to drink it anyways, and frowned down at the array of sticky notes on his desk. Most of them were from people who claimed to have caught sight of the Joker, but most of the claims were fakes, from people wanting some cash from the GPD. Gordon picked up a photograph that was lying next to his coffee cup and looked at it, his expression dark.

The crime scene they had just investigated had been an ominous one, to say the least. The young nurse that had been missing from Gotham General had been found, lying face-up, her eyes wide open and glassy, on her bathroom floor. Her hair had been sheared off, presumably with the pair of scissors they had found lying on the nightstand by the bed. From the look of the scene, she had been dead for a few days – and someone had been using the house, regardless.

It was a chilling thought, but not nearly as chilling as the bright-red HA HA HA's that the psychopath had apparently taken great pleasure in spray-painting all over the walls. The paint had been so fresh when the GPD had arrived that the investigators had to wear face masks, for fear of being overwhelmed. It was a distressing thought that they had missed him by just a few minutes.

But what was even more distressing was that now, everyone knew about it.

Gordon picked up the newspaper and dropped it into the waste basket next to his desk, picking up his cold coffee and taking a sip. He made a face and set the coffee back down on his desk. Today was just not going his way, at all. He sighed, picking up a pen, and tapped it against the edge of his desk, looking over the sticky notes again in a fruitless attempt to discern something from them, but came up with nothing.

He picked up one of the sticky notes and read it. It was Maria Goodhart's number. He glanced over at the phone sitting on his desk, considering it. He owed telling Maria every new detail in this case – she was as much a part of it as he was, and more so than Bruce Wayne, whose involvement with the cases was a complete mystery. Well, not a complete mystery anymore... not since the murder of his good friend's sister at the hands of the Joker.

Gordon frowned. Maria had known Jessica, he was sure; she had visited Arkham, and had gone in to see Jessica that one time when they had tried to question her. She had every right to know about Jessica's death. Gordon had not gotten details about the funeral – he supposed it was going to be a quiet family funeral – but he still thought Maria should know that Jessica was dead. Especially since it was at the hands of the man they were so desperately trying to catch.

He was reaching for the phone when suddenly it began to ring. Gordon stared at it for a long moment, surprised, then picked it up. "Gotham Police Department," he said, slightly put off. "State your emergency."

Gordon sounded tired. But like hell that was going to stop Maria. She took a seat, rocking forward and backward as she inserted her thumbnail into her mouth. "Information. Have you found out anything new about the Joker or Crane cases?" she asked, skipping directly to the point. He'd know who she was from her voice (hopefully), and she wasn't in the mood to chat.

She glanced back over at the map. hopefully, Gordon would have found something because, if not, both she and Kitty were quite screwed. She tapped her fingers on the table impatiently, then caught sight of the paper that she'd brought in earlier. The headline made her smirk venomously; it seemed that she wasn't the only one who'd discovered the police's incompetence. Whoever this Thomas Hale was, he had a good head on his shoulders.

Gordon was a bit taken aback by the suddenness of the question, but quickly regained his composure. "As a matter of fact, Maria," he said, sitting up straight in his chair, "I do have a few more things on the Joker case. Nothing more on Crane, besides a sighting, but I think it might be bogus…" He picked up a few sticky notes and tossed them aside until he came across one.

"Here it is," he said. "Crane, along with three female companions and one male companion, were seen at a Bar and Inn in the Narrows a few days back." He tossed the sticky note aside. "Though that makes no sense," he said with a sigh. "Crane wouldn't rent rooms. He's too smart for that. And he wouldn't be travelling with a group. It must have been a fluke." He leaned forward in his seat, glancing over the other sticky notes that littered his desk. "Couldn't get a word from the owner of the place, though," he said thoughtfully. "By the time we got around to reaching him, he was a permanent resident in Arkham."

Gordon shook his head, thinking. "Other than that, we haven't had word about Crane," he told her with a sigh. "As for the Joker case, there have been tons of sightings, and lots more deaths… including a good friend of mine. Officer Kent. I don't think you ever met him." He paused. "It's a shame," he said. "He was a good man." He looked over his sticky notes and picked one up, staring at it. "Also," he said gravely, "there was another murder I thought you'd be especially interested to hear about…"

He hesitated a moment, setting down the sticky note. Then he took a deep breath. "Jessica Fox was murdered by the Joker." He frowned darkly. "Just recently. It happened in Wayne Manor."

He leaned forward on his desk, his entire attention focused on Maria. "Wayne Manor is said to be one of the most safe places in the entire city, Maria," he told her. "That the Joker managed to get inside, kill someone, and get out without getting caught means that no one is safe. Especially not those he has targeted. Like you." He glanced over his shoulder at the map of Gotham he had tacked to the wall, marking all of the Joker's hits with little red flags, and all the spots he was reported to have been seen with little blue tacks.

Gordon scratched his chin, considering it. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the attacks, but the blue sighting dots seemed to make a pattern. "Maria," he said slowly, considering the dots, "did you ever get in contact with that man… Gerald?" He stared at the dots on the map for another long moment, then turned back to his desk and picked up one of the sticky notes. "Well, next time you see him," he said, "ask him if he knows anything about Jack Napier."

He sat back down in his chair, putting his head in his hand. "Batman hasn't been seen in days… hell, maybe even more than a week," Gordon said gravely. "The criminals are taking advantage of this opportunity to run rampant. Petty crimes and misdemeanors are keeping the GPD so busy that we don't know what to do. Add to that the Joker killing off everyone we know, and always staying one step ahead of us, totally unpredictable… And on top of that, we still have no idea where Crane is, or what he's doing…"

Gordon took a deep breath. "You're Gotham's only hope, Maria," he said, quietly. "Please don't let us down."

Batsy disappears for a week, and Gotham's police decide to make a washed-up writer with a background in psychology their only chance for survival? Maria snorted, thanked Gordon curtly, then slammed the phone back into its cradle. It was absurd. More than absurd: insane. Was this whole damn town going insane?

Crane and three female companions. Well, two of those could have been Kitty and Jeannie Rose, assuming of course that the woman's daughter hadn't been taken by this stranger she'd mentioned on the phone by then. She had no ideas about the male companion Gordon had mentioned, so she decided to file the information away for now. It was probably from some bum trying to get a little cash, anyways.

The Joker, then. There was plenty about him that she could pick apart. She sat down and grabbed the journal she'd begun keeping involving this case; it was better, she had discovered, to have a hard copy of her work in case anything...happened. She frowned at the memory of the fire as she began writing things down. Jessica. Why would he have gone after her? The only person who could answer that question was the woman herself, but she couldn't very well be questioned. Maria sat up and looked out the window.

Or was there? She'd mentioned Jessica's name when they had picked up Napier from that warehouse. He conceivably could have heard it and gone to see what all the fuss was about. Or maybe he'd just wanted the challenge of breaking into Wayne Manor. It seemed like something the Joker would do.

She finally sighed in frustration and threw down her pencil. It all led in circles. The most she could hope for now was to get some new information from Gerald at the meeting tonight. Until then, she'd have to just wait and see.

. . .

Napier was somewhere between panic mode and Joker mode. It was a hard line to tread, between keeping his head and snapping completely, and he had been trying to figure out for as long as he could remember what the transition was like, if he even realized it happened, and how far he had to be pushed in order for the transition to occur. It was almost like a Jekyll and Hyde story, except it was real – and it was happening to him.

He paused when something on the street caught his attention, and turned to see a newspaper lying face-up on the pavement. He picked it up and opened it, ignoring the slowly spreading bloodstain on the side of the paper from his still-bloody hand as he read the headline. He grinned as he read the name of the writer.

Thomas Hale. So that was the name of the man who had been helping him out all this time, instilling fear into the hearts of Gotham's do-gooders with his bold, blatantly pessimistic headlines. This one, which quite audaciously read 'Joker Still At Large: GCPD Incompetent?' made him especially happy. He chuckled as he carelessly tossed the paper back on the sidewalk where he found it, not bothering to fold it back up again. If the person it belonged to had a problem with a crumpled, bloody newspaper, they could just buy a new one.

Napier started down the street again, then paused, glancing back over his shoulder at the newspaper. There had been a picture of the author of the article, a little thumbnail, right under the title. His brow furrowed slightly as he moved back to the paper and picked it up again, unfolding it to see the picture. The man could not have been much older than Napier, but he looked so sad in his photograph. Napier's frown deepened. There was something so familiar about Hale's face...

Then it hit him. Thomas Hale had been the man sitting beside him at the bar the night earlier, the man he had slipped a Joker card, telling him to get in touch any time he wanted to get a drink. Well, drinking was certainly out of the question, all things considered... but if the man was really the author of these articles, the ones that so wonderfully crowned the Joker as Gotham's most feared criminal, then he saw no reason why he should not meet up with him again, to give him further inspiration for his articles.

Or perhaps, he thought, tossing the paper back to the ground again, he would not have to meet up with Hale at all.

Though it would certainly make things more interesting.

He shook out his bloody hand, making sure he still had feeling in it. There was no way he was going back to Jeanette's place, not after all the mayhem and trauma that had become associated with it. But without Jeanette, he had nowhere to stay, and almost nothing to wear.

The first could come later. The second, he could take care of right now.

He grinned, glancing once more at the newspaper, then turned away and disappeared down a side alley.

. . .

"If you get on Warren White's bad side...he will destroy you."

_Not if I destroy him first._

Jeanette kept herself satisfied with that thought on the way back to the apartment. She'd get this deal with Kitty and Crane worked out, then she'd make White her next project. It would be interesting, seeing the City's crime thrown into chaos again. She remembered what had happened when Falcone was taken out; all organized crime was thrown into chaos in the power struggle that ensued among Falcone's followers.

Maybe _she_ could get involved in the new leadership. The thought made her pause. Did she really want to spend that much time in Gotham City? There was nothing left here to stay for. She frowned and entered the apartment building. That was a thought for another day, when she was less distracted.

The first minute when she entered the apartment, she didn't notice anything wrong. Sure, it was a bit quiet, but she'd been expecting a shouting match between Jeannie Rose and Napier, or something of that nature; the silence was a relief. She set down her purse and fixed her hair in her mirror, going over her plans for the rest of the day. They'd have to figure out how to get to Crane; she had a few ideas to try out. She grinned at the thought.

The smile slowly faded, though, when she finally got the feeling that something was wrong. "Napier?" she called. There was no answer. She pulled out her new hand gun from her pocket and walked carefully to the center of the room. "Jeannie Rose?"

She paused for a moment, then furrowed her brow. The door to the bedroom was open, and through it she could see a mess. She went inside. The room looked like it had been hit by a tornado; torn fabric was everywhere, furniture was overturned, and the mirror was smashed...

Dread flooded her veins. That had to have been Napier. What the hell had happened...? "Jeannie Rose!" she shouted, finally panicking.

Jeannie Rose had been curled up in a corner of the bathroom, crying. When she heard Jeanette calling her name, she instantly looked up. "Miss Jeanette?" she asked faintly. When Jeanette repeated her name, Jeannie Rose quickly got to her feet and ran towards the sound of Jeanette's voice. It was proving a difficult feat, seeing as she not only wore her mother's long black dress now, but the purple Joker coat Napier had left behind over it as well. She pulled the coat around herself, trying to keep it from dragging too much on the floor, but it was huge on her tiny form, and her attempts were fruitless.

"Miss Jeanette!" Jeannie Rose ran into the bedroom and attached herself to Jeanette's leg, her face shining with tears. She looked up into Jeanette's face. "He's gone, Miss Jeanette!" she sobbed. "He was here, an' then he got all mad at me, an' now he's gone!" She wailed in anguish, gripping tighter to Jeanette's leg. "I didn't do anything wrong, an' he got all mad at me an' started yelling…" She took deep, gasping breaths, trying to stop her tears, but they kept coming. "All I did was call him Daddy an' he starting breaking things…"

Jeannie Rose looked back up at Jeanette, wiping her eyes on the too-long sleeve of the purple coat, sniffling. "He said he wasn't my daddy," she told her, her voice shaking with tears. "He said he didn't want to be my daddy 'cause I was a girl." She shook her head, pulling the Joker coat tightly around her tiny form. "I just…" she tried to start, but had to stop. "I just…"

She sniffled, trying to stop crying long enough to get a sentence out, but could not. She shook her head, tears shining in her eyes, and started bawling again. "I want my Mommie!" she cried.

Jeanette stared down coldly at Jeannie Rose for a moment, then picked the little girl up and sat down on the bed with her, tucking the gun back into her pocket. She stayed stone-still, locking her eyes on a point on the wall.

That fucking _rat_. She had done _everything_ for him - given him a place to stay, let him back into her apartment after what he'd tried to do, looked past his oddities and irritating habits. And how had he repaid her? By trashing her apartment, terrifying Jeannie Rose, and then leaving again.

_Again._

_AGAIN._

She wanted to scream. She wanted to punch someone. No, she wanted to kill someone. A specific someone. She took a deep breath and looked down at Jeannie Rose. She'd have to do something about this, first. "Sweetie, I'm really sorry," she said, trying to sound sincere and probably failing miserably. "He's just a little..._confused_ right now." Her teeth ground together in irritation.

So now Napier knew that Jeannie Rose was his daughter. And, judging by his reaction - she looked again at the bloody mess of glass on the floor - he wasn't too happy about it. What was it that Jeannie Rose had said? That he hated her because she was a girl? She stood up again, pushing the girl off to the side. "I've got to..." she began, her speech clipped and furious. "I'll be back. I have to...Just stay here, I'll be back." She went back to the door of the apartment and slammed it shut behind her. She paused only to lock it, then stormed down the few flights of stairs to the street.

Once outside, she went into a back alley and ran into some homeless junkie, who threatened her with some very foul language before she fired a clip into his forehead. He dropped, and she resumed pacing. Unbelievable. Just when she thought she could _maybe_ start trusting people again, this happened. Napier was a fucking _bastard_. She kicked the shoe of the now dead stranger, then considered him for a moment.

This little glitch in her plans, as it were, changed nothing. She still had reason to find Crane and get rid of him; she just didn't have the extra help, which she was now starting to think she hadn't needed in the first place. She had no other use for Jack Napier, so who cared if he was helping her or out drunk on the streets again? She re-entered the apartment with a mission: she needed to find Crane. "Jeannie Rose, let's go find your mommy."


	40. Chapter ThirtyNine

Napier tapped the watch he now wore, frowning down at the time. It was past three in the afternoon, almost four. He sighed, wondering where the day had gone. Of course, he had always been told that time flew when you were having fun… however, he had not exactly chosen that as his adjective of choice for crushing the spine of a random businessman in a back alley just to figure out his suit was too small to fit into.

It was such a waste of daylight. But at least he got a watch.

He was starting to calm down now, slowly winding down from the panicked adrenaline high of earlier that day, and he found himself wandering back towards the more familiar part of town. He stopped, his hands in his pockets, and stared down the street at the buildings lining it, taking a deep breath. He had a number of options. He could go back to Jeanette's apartment and hope she would take the excuse of 'a moment of insanity', or he could hide his face from Jeanette for a while, like last time, and drink himself into oblivion until she came looking for him again.

He checked his new watch again. Besides the drinking part, the second option sounded like the better of the two. He knew that Jeanette could have almost as much of a temper as he did, at times, and he did not want to be on the receiving end of it, especially after what he had done, and what he had said to his daughter…

No, he told himself. He had a _son._ Of that, he was sure. But there was no denying that there were certainly some very uncanny similarities between himself and the girl…

He shook his head, clearing the thought, and turned, staring at the uncrowded entrance of the Iceberg Lounge. It seemed as good a place as any to unwind – in fact, it seemed a better place than most. At least he would not stick out in his colourful attire, and even if he did, no one would say anything about it. The Iceberg was a niche for Gotham's criminals, of which he was undoubtedly one, and no good criminal ratted on another.

Unless, of course, they were a rat.

He pushed a swatch of hair from one eye and made his way into the Iceberg Lounge, and from there over to the bar. He stared at the list of options on the back wall, acknowledging Maggie, who was thoughtfully cleaning one of the glasses, presumably until it shone.

Napier sighed, looking down at his knuckles, but looked up as someone came and sat down next to him. Selina Kyle smiled slyly over at him. He grinned back at her, raising his eyebrows. "Well, hello," he said smoothly. "I don't believe we've met..."

"Oh, we have," she said with a sigh, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. She exhaled smoke. "If I remember correctly, you invited me back to your apartment for sex."

Napier stopped short, taken aback. Then he looked away, clearing his throat. "Did I, now?" he asked.

Selina nodded, taking another drag of her cigarette. "In as many words," she replied.

He nodded slowly, awkward. "Oh," he finally said.

She blew out smoke, tapping her cigarette in an ash tray. "I'm not surprised you don't remember," she said airily. She looked back at him. "You were pretty drunk," she told him.

He glanced over at her, then back at his hands. "That would explain it," he agreed, still discomfited. There was a long silence between them. Then Napier cleared his throat. "So," he said, looking up at the decorations on the walls of the Lounge rather than at Selina, not wanting to make eye contact. "Gotham city, huh?"

"You're terrible at small talk," she told him frankly, raising her eyebrows and taking another long drag of her cigarette. She exhaled thoughtfully. "But that's okay, because you're cute." She looked up, indicating Maggie behind the bar. "Margaret," she drawled, "get the man a drink."

Maggie looked up, surprised, and her brow furrowed slightly when she saw Selina, and even more when she saw Napier. She sat cleaning a glass for a long moment, staring at them. Napier looked up at her, and frowned a bit. "Tell you what," he said, holding up a hand, "I really don't want a drink. Really." He gave Maggie an assured look. "Italian soda water will be fine for me."

"Oh, you're a fancy one, aren't you?" Selina asked with a seductive grin. "You're into the whole sparkling water thing, huh?" Napier shrugged, glancing over in her direction, then back at Maggie, who set the drink down in front of him. He took up the glass and started to take a drink of the soda water. Selina watched him closely. "Or is it that you're into Italians?" she asked smoothly.

Napier spit out the soda water, choking. Then, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he turned to her. "What?!" he asked.

Selina frowned playfully. "You see, I _told_ you you should've gotten something different," she told him. She turned back to Maggie. "Get him some scotch," she told the woman, "some of the good stuff. It'll be on me."

"No, really, I don't want anything," Napier said, a little more forcibly. He turned to Maggie. "I don't want a drink," he told her firmly.

Maggie nodded. "Good for you," she said approvingly.

"You're both impossible," Selina said with an annoyed frown. She turned back to Maggie, tapping the bar with one of her lacquered fingernails. "Just make him the goddamn drink, Maggie."

"He says he doesn't want a drink," Maggie countered. "I respect that. He obviously doesn't want to have a repeat of last night."

"Shut up, Maggie," Selina said, frowning. "You're lucky Os has kept you on for so long anyways, without you getting into arguments with the customers. Now just fix up the drink." She turned back to Napier, who looked a bit taken aback, and smiled smoothly. "Sorry," she said, "where were we?"

"Um," Napier said, lost.

"Oh, that's right," Selina said with a false laugh, touching him on the arm, "you." She watched as Maggie set the drink down between herself and Napier, and, with a smile, pushed the drink to Napier. "Drink up," she said.

Napier frowned and pushed the drink away. Selina looked surprised, and looked up at him. He shook his head. "I'm trying to quit," he told her.

"Oh," she said, sounding slightly disappointed.

"Yeah," he said. There was a pause. Then he asked, "So... what about me?"

Selina paused, looking at the drink he had turned down, then looked back at him. "Well," she said, sounding slightly out of place, "I know we got off on the wrong foot yesterday, but I think... I may have just caught you at a bad time." She leaned forward on the bar. He lifted his chin slightly to see down her low-cut dress, and she turned towards him a bit, letting him. A slight grin played at the corner of his mouth, and he looked back up at her face.

"Is that so?" he asked.

"That, it is," she said, nonchalant, turning to face him. "I think you're really... a _great guy,_ just waiting for the right girl to come along." She pushed the glass of scotch towards him. He looked down at the drink, frowning slightly, then back up at her. She smiled innocently. "A proper introduction is always better over a drink," she told him.

He quirked an eyebrow at her. "But we haven't even introduced ourselves," he said, sounding slightly put off. He grinned at her. "I'm Joseph," he said, leaning forward a bit.

She smiled back at him, seeming slightly uncomfortable. "Joseph," she said with a somewhat nervous laugh. "It's a pleasure. I'm Selina." She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and reached over to her purse, pulling out a slender tube of lipstick. She began to twist it open when it slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor. "Oh, shoot," she said, putting a delicate hand to her lips. "I'm so clumsy."

"Oh, let me," Napier said, bending from his bar stool to pick up the lipstick. As he was bending down, Selina reached into her purse and pulled out a small glass bottle. She unscrewed the lid and quickly emptied the powder inside into Napier's drink, then swiftly stashed it back into her purse as he surfaced again, holding her lipstick aloft. She smiled thankfully at him, taking the lipstick.

"You're such a dear," she said, shrugging her shoulders to accentuate her cleavage. She quickly applied a touch of lipstick, then put it away in her bag and turned back to him with a seductive smile. "So," she said, drawling slightly, "where were we?"

"Exchanging names," Napier said.

"Of course," she said with a fake laugh. She pushed the drink slightly towards him again, and he looked down at it with a suspicious frown. Then he looked up at her again. "What?" she asked innocently. "I had it made special for you. Aren't you going to drink it?" She put on a slightly pouty face. "Joe," she pleaded.

Napier stared at her for a long moment. Then he leaned forward, a grin starting to quirk around the edges of his mouth. "You know what I think?" he asked.

She leaned in towards him as well, making sure to accentuate her cleavage as much as she possibly could. "What's that?" she asked, batting her eyelashes seductively.

He grinned widely. "What if I told you," he said, "I think you're just trying to get me drunk so you can take me back to your place and take advantage of me?"

She smiled wryly at him. "Well," she said, running a finger down his pants-leg, "what if I told you... you were right?" She grinned up at him.

Napier's grin widened. He turned to the bar, picked up the scotch, and downed it in one toss, like a shot, then set the glass down on the counter and turned back to Selina. "I like you," he said with a smile. "But this one drink is all I'm gonna have. No matter _how_ cute you are."

Selina's smile widened. "Of course," she said slowly.

. . .

Wayne stared out the large windows of the inside-balcony of Wayne Manor, his arms folded across his chest. All business at Wayne Enterprises had been cancelled that day, as he had sent out an announcement for all employees of every division, including WayneTech, to go home to their families and do what they could to keep them safe from the Joker. It had been a preliminary warning to any employees who might not have been taking the threat as seriously as they should.

Fox had called in a unit from Gotham General to have Jessica taken out that morning, and Wayne had spent most of the day silently brooding by the cold, empty bed. Occasionally Alfred had come in to see if he wanted tea, or something to eat, but had left without a word when he saw Wayne sitting in the chair next to the bed, his chin in his hand, staring at the spot where Jessica had been just yesterday. What hurt the most, he supposed, was that she had been recovering so well...

Alfred had cleaned up the mess left by the Joker, and had burned the nurse's bag and the card, and for some reason, it gave him great satisfaction to see the little symbol of evil curling up and distorting in the flames. He sighed, watching the flames dancing about the symbol of death, and closed the furnace, turning away with a heavy heart.

Wayne picked up his Batman mask from the glass coffee-table and stared at it, standing at the window. He had spent the whole day thinking, and had gotten nothing accomplished... besides, he hoped, making the employees of Wayne Enterprises a little more wary of their very dangerous surroundings. He looked up, staring out at the city. He was supposed to be Gotham city's saviour, but so far he had been almost helpless against the ever-growing dangers that were threatening his city.

He set the mask down on the tabletop and started pacing slowly, his hands folded behind his back. It had been a week, if not more, since the last time he had gone out as Batman. He had had so much on his mind, he had not had the time to think about the masked vigilante. He was losing everything – Rachel, Fox, even Alfred seemed distant, at times. His life, as an individual, was crashing down around him. All he had left was Batman. And now even Batman seemed futile, against so many threats. He glanced back at the mask once, then went back to pacing.

He could not take everyone out at once. He had to choose. He knew what he had to do; he just did not know how he should go about doing it. He checked his Rolex. It was almost four-thirty in the afternoon. He sighed, looking out the window again, as he heard Alfred entering the room quietly behind him. "Why does he do it, Alfred?" he asked grimly, coming to a standstill in front of one of the large windows. "Why does he kill people mercilessly? Does he do it to prove something?"

Alfred raised his eyebrows, moving into the room and setting the tray he had been holding down on the coffee-table. "I'm not sure what his motivations are, Master Wayne," he admitted. He stood straight, watching Wayne. "But I don't think they are very noble, all things considered. In fact, Sir," he added as Wayne turned around to face him, "I wouldn't be surprised if he hadn't any motives at all."

Wayne frowned slightly. "What do you mean, Alfred?" he asked.

Alfred shrugged. "I mean, Sir," he said, "I don't know if he does it because he wants to prove something... or if he does it just to do it." He looked up at Wayne, his blue eyes sad. "Some men aren't looking for anything logical," he told him. "They can't be bought, bullied, reasoned or negotiated with." He turned, looking out the large glass window, and Wayne's attention returned to the cityscape as well. "Some men just want to watch the world burn," Alfred finished quietly.

Wayne looked back at Alfred at this last. "I'm going to stop him," he said firmly. "I'm going to put an end to this... tyranny." He looked back out the window. "This is my city," he said quietly. "I'm not just going to sit around and watch it fall." He glanced back at the bat cowl sitting on the coffee table, then up at Alfred.

"Get my gear ready, Alfred," he said. "Tonight, I'm going to catch a criminal."

. . .

"Fifteen seconds."

Sweat dripped down her forehead. She wiped it away hurriedly, with the back of her already damp palm, cringing when she realized it was a second of wasted time that she couldn't afford.

"Eight seconds."

She was on the home stretch - she could see the wire, she could _see_ it, and she was picking up her scissors and did he _have_ to keep saying her time because there was a huge red digital readout right in front of her telling her and its beeping was driving her _nuts_...

"Three seconds, Kai-!"

The small room shook with an enormous explosion.

Kaitlyn rocked back on her heels in disgust and ruffled her pixie-cut red hair. She didn't care if the explosion was fake; it still scared the shit out of her every time it went off. The door opened behind her. She didn't turn to look at her boss, but leaned forward to inspect the small black box in front of her. It was outdated, really; none of today's criminals and terrorists used timed bombs any more, they all operated with detonators.

"Creed."

In fact, this whole _system_ was pretty outdated. Kaitlyn was much more used to working with computers instead of scissors, spit, and a whole lot of prayer.

"_Creed._"

And she was all out of whack anyways. She hadn't played with the simulator for _weeks_, having been too busy focusing on her investigative work. And then her supervisors decided to throw this dumb assessment...

"_Creed_, dammit, listen to me when I'm talking to you!"

Kaitlyn finally looked up. Dr. Sarch's face was turning a nice shade of magenta. She sighed. "Yessir?"

"What the hell happened?"

She shrugged. "W'th all due respect, o'course, sir," she drawled, standing and pulling the thin black gloves off of her hands, "I've bin out of practice." She turned back to the bomb. "An' yer equipment is out of date, too, the stuff's practically junk..."

"Creed, you can bitch and moan about this _brand-new equipment_ all you want," Sarch told her, leading her out of the room. They emerged into an enormous, dimly-lit room. It was full of computer banks and the hushed sounds of typing and papers shifting. Sarch led her between the work areas. "You've been lazy with your practicing."

"Well, y'can't exactly _blame_ me..." Kaitlyn paced by an empty work space and paused to inspect the newspaper sitting on the desk - its headline, and the enormous picture of the Joker's face at the top of the article, had caught her eye. Sarch took her shoulder and steered her away; she looked up, eyes sparkling with interest. "If I'm having a bit of trouble focusing on my..._current_...work," she finished.

Sarch sighed and adjusted his thick glasses. "We all know what you want, Creed..."

"Robert, too."

"Fine, fine, you _and_ Tassle. But we already have a team working on that case..."

"An' they're doing such a _fine_ job finding him, neh?"

Sarch frowned. "They're working on it."

"_We'd_ work harder." Kaitlyn stopped walking, forcing Sarch to turn and look at her. "Dr. Sarch, you _know_ Robert and I are perfectly up-to-date on the Joker case. We've been studying this guy for _days_, and we know him inside out." She hid a grin. "Besides, this is our specialty, and we haven't had something like this in Gotham for _months._ There is absolutely _no reason_ for us not to have the case."

There was a tense moment of silence. Then Sarch dragged a hand down his face and mumbled, "A'ght."

"But I...What?"

"Alright, I said, alright!" He walked away before she could reply, and called back, "I'll take the old team off the case; you two can start investigations today, and report all information straight to me. Don't screw this up, Creed."

As he shut the thick door of his office on Kaitlyn Creed's jubilant and immature shrieks of joy, he hoped he hadn't just screwed himself over.

Kaitlyn, meanwhile, had dug her cell phone out of her pocket. She hit her first speed dial and tapped her foot impatiently until the other end picked up.

"You fail your sim?" a male voice asked.

She winced. "Doesn't matter..."

"Which means you did."

"...because we got the case." She grinned at the long silence that followed. "Remember to _breathe_, Boomer."

He sucked in a breath, and she laughed. "Sarch finally caved?" he asked. She could hear the sound of traffic behind him.

"Yeah. An' good, you're already out - meet me for a celebratory drink?"

She could hear the frown behind his voice as he asked, "Sarch didn't tell us to start research?"

Kaitlyn grinned; her partner knew her too well. "Nah, not in so many words. Usual spot, fifteen minutes, you're buying for once." She hung up, cutting off his sharp noise of protest. She dropped the phone back into her pocket and headed out.

. . .

Eddie sat down on his bed, bending over and pulling on his socks, then slipping on his sneakers and tying them tightly. He stood from the bed, shaking out the legs of his jeans to make sure they fell back into place, then moved to his dresser and opened one of the drawers, rummaging around for a shirt. He pulled one out, opened it to see what it looked like, then tossed it aside with an irritated frown. There was one particular shirt he had wanted to wear, but, like most things, now that he wanted to find it, it was nowhere to be seen.

Eddie had never really bothered with dressing up particularly for the AA meetings, but this time, he had motivation to look at least a little better than usual. He pulled a shirt from his dresser, inspected it, then, deciding it would have to do, slipped it on over his head. Then he went into the bathroom and grinned at himself in the mirror.

"Hello, ma'am," he said, "it's nice to meet you." He paused, reconsidering. "Hello, Miss, I'm Eddie," he tried again. He frowned. Gerald had already introduced him to her, and, although she had been otherwise distracted at the time, she already knew his name. He stared at himself in the mirror, then, with an irritated huff, pulled the shirt off and went back to his bedroom to try again.

He pulled open another drawer in his dresser, pulling out every shirt in it, trying to find the one particular shirt he wanted to wear. He glanced over towards his dirty-clothes bin, hoping that it was not dirty – it was his favourite shirt, so there was always the possibility that he had worn it recently – but was relieved to find that the familiar colour was nowhere to be seen in the small pile of clothes. He turned back to his dresser and opened the last drawer. With a smile, he pulled out the shirt he had been looking for and held it up.

"Thank goodness," he said with a relieved sigh. He pulled the shirt on over his head and went back to the bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror. He paused a moment, then smiled amiably at his reflection.

"Hello, Miss Maria," he said. "It's good to see you again. I'm so glad you decided to come back."

He blushed slightly at the thought of actually saying that to Maria; it was a big step. Eddie was a nervous man, and did not usually take the first step. He was somewhat socially awkward, and had never really been big in the dating scene, but he found himself willing to step outside his normal boundaries of comfort for this. He picked up his brush and ran it through his short red hair a few times before checking the clock on the bathroom wall. It was a little past four-thirty. The AA meeting was not until six.

He sighed, frowning, and went back to his bedroom to pace. He had managed to get up the courage to talk to Maria, but now he had to hold onto it for over an hour. He sat down on his bed, folding his hands in his lap.

"Darn," he whispered.

. . .

Robert Tassle smiled as he put away his phone. Typical Kaitlyn, getting into trouble with their supervisor and then turning it around. He didn't _care_ what she said to the contrary, she had failed her sim test.

Miserably, too.

He turned around and entered the doors of the Iceberg Lounge. He'd been just about to go in for a drink, anyways, before his partner had given him the call. Now there was even more reason to. He spotted the familiar lady behind the counter and, as he sat down, said, "Miss Pye, it's good to see you again. Could you grab me some water?"

Robert nearly had to fold himself in half to sit on the barstool; his six feet six inches of height did not lend him any grace, and, no matter how much it seemed in the contrary, neither did his wiry muscles. He twitched an out-of-place curly brown hair on his head behind his ear and looked around at the Lounge with calm blue eyes.

He knew - he and Kaitlyn _both_ knew - that their visits to the place were frowned upon. Even if the police never managed to find anything at the Lounge, everyone knew it wasn't the most morally upright bar in Gotham. He _liked_ Margaret, though, and even the bare glimpses he caught of Mr. Cobblepot, the man who ran the place. They both seemed like decent enough folks, and Kaitlyn agreed with him. So the Lounge had become their on-again off-again haunt.

But a drink and a bit of offhanded conversation weren't all he was there for today. "Say, Ms. Pye..." he said, in his habitual slow way that said his mind wasn't totally on the topic at hand, "I saw something in today's paper about the _Joker_ being spotted here. Creepy, huh?" He crossed his legs and looked down at the bar, tracing circles in the smooth surface with his long, elegant fingers. "I mean...I know the police are kind of desperate to find him, but that seemed a bit far-fetched."

He kept his tone carefree, without a hint of the curiosity he felt. He and Kaitlyn weren't exactly known as police officers; technically, that wasn't their title. They worked for a private company that had been approached regarding the Joker case. It seemed that the police commissioner was getting desperate. Not that it was a bad thing for Robert, of course. He was as interested in this guy as Kaitlyn.

Maggie smiled over at Robert and poured him a glass of water, setting it down on the counter in front of him and standing over by him, picking up a dirty glass and starting to clean it. "It's _Pyle,_ actually," she said good-naturedly. "But I've told you before, everyone calls me _Maggie._"

She sighed, looking down at the glass she was cleaning, and shrugged. "I wouldn't know anything about that, my good man," she told him, looking back up at him. "If he's ever been here, he wasn't wearing his makeup. I don't ask questions like that about the customers, really... against policy." She glanced over her shoulder, pausing in her cleaning, then set down the glass and leaned forward towards him on the bar top.

"I know he was here at least once, though," she told him in a low voice. She peered over his shoulder to make sure no one behind him was listening in, then went on, "Just yesterday, late at night, Os comes to me and tells me the Joker had been here. Played a hand of cards with him." She shook her head, shuddering slightly. "It's a scary thought," she said.

Maggie paused, looking down, then picked up a rag and started to clean off the counter. "If he'd just told me what the man had looked like, I would be happy to keep a lookout for you," she said. Then she looked up. "Providing you're not with the police," she added, her expression serious. Then a smile split her face and she went back to cleaning off the counter. "You don't seem like the police type to me, though," she said with a slightly embarrassed chuckle, "so I trust you."

She leaned back, away from the counter, and picked up the glass she had been cleaning earlier, going back to cleaning it again. "I have no idea who would tell about who they saw here," she said, looking around. "It's not a very interesting place, all things considered... and no one really seems to pay much mind to who's here." She looked back at Robert with a faint smile. "Speaking of which," she said, "are you waiting on your friend? I never see you without her." Her smile widened.

"How long have you been seeing one another?" she asked. Then, setting down the now-shining glass, she asked, "Any... _special plans _in mind?" She paused, realizing how nosy she must have seemed, and started cleaning off the counter-top again. "Not that there has to be," she added. "Os and I have been... good friends for a long while now, and there's never been any mention of anything more." She paused, sighing, then went back to cleaning the counter, looking up at Robert. "Just friends?" she asked.

Robert took the cup and grinned boyishly up at Maggie. "But, you know, 'Pye' makes me think of 'sweetie-pie', and we all know what you are, Maggie," he replied promptly, making no effort to conceal the wistful tone in his voice. She _was_ cute, if a few years older than him. He added as a rather insincere afterthought, "Glad to hear things are going well between you and Mr. Cobblepot." His little "crush", so to speak, on Maggie was a running joke, and nothing more.

He leaned forward, then, nodding. "Yeah, sure _is_ scary..." he murmured, eyes drifting to the seating area and the few customers there. Then they returned to Maggie with a warm smile. "Sure you've got nothing to worry about, though, that guy's got bigger things on his mind than killing a few innocent civilians." Lies, his brain screamed, lies and inaccuracies; everyone knew how the Joker had been spending his free time, and it mainly involved beating the hell out of bystanders. But Robert was, by nature, a happy person; he didn't like seeing people upset.

"Of course," he finally replied after a little thought, a slow grin spreading across his face. "I'm _always_ waiting for Kaitlyn. Girl can't keep a freaking appointment. Speaking of which..." He pulled up his sleeve and checked his watch; she had only thirty seconds to get there. He smiled. She was going to be late, and he, Mr. Nag, was going to call her out on it. Life was good. He turned back to Maggie with a laugh. "Oh, no, nothing like that. We _are_ just friends. Grew up together as kids, and all that," he explained shortly. God only knew why He'd decided to stick the two troublemakers together, but it had worked very well.

Apparently, miracles could happen.

"And don't let Kaitlyn catch you saying that," he added with a laugh, "or she'll..."

"I'll _what_?"

Robert nearly fell off his chair; instead, he ducked down in surprise, only to smack his forehead against the counter with a loud thud. His face re-emerged moments later, a large red splotch covering half his forehead. He rubbed it irritably and looked back at Kaitlyn, who was rocking backwards and forwards on her toes like a child.

"Do not _do_ that," he told her curtly, then checked his watch. Fifteen minutes since her call, on the dot. OCD, immature little...

Kaitlyn took a seat and smiled at Maggie. "Scotch on the rocks?" she requested, completely ignoring the dirty look given her by Robert. "Oh, hold the phone, he's paying..." She reconsidered her order. "I've never had a hurricane," she said airily.

"So, have you lived in Gotham your entire life?" Napier asked, seemingly more at ease now that he had taken her up on her offer to buy him a drink. Selina nodded distractedly, staring at the clock on the wall behind the bar with a faint frown on her face.

"Unfortunately," she said with a sigh, tapping her lacquered fingernails against the bar. Then she looked over at him. "Gotham's such a dump," she said disdainfully, shaking her head. "It's nothing but a concrete hole in the ground, where criminals come to make it big." She looked over at Maggie. "What are you doing all the way over there? Get over here." She tapped the bar with one fingernail. "I'll have some water," she said. "I'm parched."

Maggie nodded wordlessly and pulled out a glass, fixing up Selina's water. Napier watched her for a moment, then frowned slightly, wavering in his seat. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them and shook his head. Selina looked over at him, concerned.

"You okay?" she asked.

Napier paused, then looked back at Selina with a slightly confused expression. "I'm feeling a little tipsy," he admitted. He picked up his empty glass, looking at it, as if he could see some answer to his curiosity in it, then looked back at Selina. "What did you put in my drink?"

Selina laughed, a fake, somewhat uncomfortable laugh. "Nothing!" she assured him, shrugging.

"Are you sure?" he asked with a grin, setting down his glass on the bar again.

She smiled, turning her head slightly, as if scolding him. "You would have seen me," she assured him.

He nodded in consent, taking a breath, and looked away. "That's some strong scotch, then," he said with a heavy exhale and a smile.

"I guess it must be," Selina said with a false laugh. Then she turned back to Maggie, who was staring at her accusingly. Selina frowned. "What do you want?" she asked harshly. "Where's my water?" Maggie finished pouring the water and placed the glass on the counter in front of Selina, still glaring at her. Selina picked up the glass, totally disregarding Maggie's accusing look, and glanced up at the clock again. "It's almost five," she said to herself in an undertone.

"Hmm?" Napier looked up from staring into the bottom of his empty glass and glanced over at her. "Did you say something?"

Selina shook her head. "I was just noticing the time," she said.

Maggie glanced back at the two of them, frowning, then returned to Robert and Kaitlin. "I'm sorry," she said. "Os always tells me to be nice to the customers... but it's so hard to be when they're..." She looked over at Selina darkly, then sighed, picking up the clean glass and making Kaitlin's order. "But anyways," she said, turning her attention back to them and mixing up the drink, "that's not really important."

She set Kaitlin's drink down in front of her, then leaned on the counter between them. "You," she said, smiling over at Robert, "are a tease." Then she looked between the two of them. "So what's this top-secret thing you're collecting information on the Joker for?" she asked in a lower voice. "I know general interest when I hear it, and that was certainly more than just general interest." She quirked an eyebrow at Robert with a friendly smile.

"So, come on," she said, "I deal with people like_ her_ all day." She indicated Selina, then turned back to the two of them. "I'm good at keeping quiet. Let me in on the secret." She winked at Robert. "I promise I won't tell," she added with a smile.

Kaitlyn took her drink with obvious glee, sucking down a quarter of it in just under ten seconds. Then she looked up curiously at Maggie's question. Robert had actually started researching the Joker? He was such a fucking _square_ sometimes. "Thanks, Mags," she said, totally off-topic as she sucked down another fourth of the hurricane. It was nice and sweet. Better than the usual crud she ordered. "It's _good_," she said, in an unintentionally surprised voice.

Robert frowned at her. She wouldn't be able to drink much of that without totally losing it; as much as Kaitlyn liked her drinking, she couldn't hold her liquor at all, and having a loose tongue around a place like this was never a good idea.

He turned back to Maggie with a smile. "No, no, you're wrong," he told her kindly. "I'm not a tease. I'm just more hopeful than your average guy." He shot her a wink and a grin, and ignored the hardly-muffled snort from Kaitlyn. Flirting was hard when your best friend was right next to you. And when she was a cynical, obnoxious spoil-sport.

Then he sighed. "Actually," he confided slowly, wording his reply carefully, "I'm a little low on cash at the moment. Still looking for a job, you know." The lies came easily. He was used to dodging the truth involving his motives; he and Kaitlyn had to do it a lot. "I figured that there'd probably be some sort of reward if you caught the guy, so..."

He shrugged and put out his hands. "Got to pay the rent somehow, right? And it doesn't help when your _friends_ start mooching off your _kindness_," he added with special emphasis, shooting a look at Kaitlyn.

She stuck out her tongue at him and slurped again at her drink. "Guy's desperate," she told Maggie behind her hand, loudly enough that Robert could still plainly hear her. It earned her a cuff on the back of her head. She grinned. "But I'm all for 'im. 'Sides, he said he'd take me out to eat if he actually catches the guy."

"Is that so?" Maggie smiled over at Robert. "Well, you are quite the gentleman. But I'm afraid I can't be of much use to you, as far as catching him goes..." She shrugged, picking up her cloth and starting to absently clean one small section of the countertop with it. "I've never been much good with faces, so I wouldn't be able to tell you if I'd seen him. Though if some guy comes in here with over-the-top makeup on and that big purple coat of his..." She made a motion with her arms to indicate the large purple trench coat. "I'll let you know."

Cobblepot entered the Iceberg Lounge, checking his pocket watch, and sighed at the time. He had been out all morning and now into the afternoon. He clicked the pocket watch shut, thinking about all the business opportunities he might have missed, but instantly a smile was brought to his face when he saw Maggie at the bar. "Maggie, darling," he said, moving to the bar and leaning over, offering an air-kiss to either side of Maggie's face. Then he turned to the two people sitting at the bar.

Cobblepot pointed to them, smiling amiably at them as well. "Don't tell me," he said, squinting at them slightly. He pointed to the tall man. "Robert," he said. Then he pointed to his female companion. "Kaitlin," he said. The grin returned to his face, and he clapped Robert lightly on the back. "Always remember my customers," he said. He glanced up at the clock on the wall, and a slight frown crossed his face. "Gracious," he said, pulling out his pocket watch again, "I'm fifteen minutes slow. Is it already past five?"

He started winding the watch forward. "Any customers of particular interest come in while I was gone, Maggie?" he asked.

Maggie shook her head. "Just the usual suspects," she said with a sigh. Then she glanced over towards Selina and Napier. "White's girl is here," she said. "Alone. Should I be concerned?"

Cobblepot shrugged, slipping his pocket watch back into his pocket. "Is she being a bitch?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," said Maggie.

"Then no," said Cobblepot with a shrug, slipping his hands into his pockets. "White said she was out amusing herself, and since her usual form of amusement is stepping on people, I take it nothing's awry." He smiled at Maggie. "But don't worry yourself about her, luv. She's not important in the grand scheme of things." He glanced back at Robert and Kaitlin. "Good seeing the two of you again," he said, turning to walk away.

"Where are you going, Os?" Maggie asked, leaning slightly on the counter.

"Just to the back room for a bit," he said. "Doing some inventory." He smiled at her. "I'll be right out, don't you worry," he told her. Then, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, he knocked one out, lit up, and walked away.

Maggie sighed, watching him, then turned back to Robert and Kaitlin. "Os is always so mysterious," she said. She glanced over in the direction he had disappeared to. "I just wish I knew what he was up to half the time," she said quietly.

"Don't we all," Kaitlyn murmured, more to herself than Maggie as she watched Oswald depart. He was a weirdo, no matter how polite Robert pretended to be, they both knew it. And he was hiding things. Like what he did in his back room, and where he disappeared to all the time. She turned slowly back to her drink and tossed the rest of it down.

Her brain, which had already been buzzing pleasantly from the drink, now seemed to give a contented sigh and sort of shut down. She grinned lazily and, before she knew it, was tipping towards the floor.

Robert sprang up from his seat and caught his partner before she hit the ground. He tugged her into a standing position, and she hung from his arms for a second with a hiccup and a giggle. "Sorry about that, Maggie," he said, hefting Kaitlyn up so that he could sling an arm around her shoulders for support. "Can't hold her alcohol at _all_. I'll just get her home." He dropped a twenty on the bar, told her to keep the change, and began to carefully lead Kaitlyn out of the Lounge.

White, hm? Warren White? He'd heard tales of that guy, involving dogfights and gambling and all _sorts_ of illegal schemes. But Os and Maggie didn't seem to be on particularly good terms with the man, judging by Os' tone when he talked about him, so Robert figured there was no reason to worry. So he instead focused on getting Kaitlyn back to their apartment complex in one piece.

The Joker, wherever he was, would just have to wait another day.


	41. Chapter Forty

Cobblepot closed the lid of the newest piece of weaponry he had ordered with a satisfied sigh. The shipment had come not only in a timely manner, but had been packaged nicely, and the gun had arrived in pristine condition. It was worth every cent he had spent on it – especially since he had the intent of selling it for more. He put the slim silver case back into the padded box it had arrived in and closed the lid, clicking the lock on the edge of it shut and slipping the key back into his pocket.

Cobblepot pulled out his pocket-watch, checking the time. It was almost six o' clock. He had been in the back room doing inventory for a while, and he was sure Maggie was wondering where he was. He slipped the watch back into his pocket and started for the doorway of the back room. Perhaps some new customers had come in while he had been back there; it was always his delight to greet his customers personally, since it gave the Iceberg that personal touch that not many other places could boast to have – regardless if the Iceberg was secretly an underground for criminals.

Even criminals liked a friendly, homely environment every once in a while.

Cobblepot pushed the door open, stepping outside into the bar area, and looked over to the bar, where Maggie was cleaning the counter-top. The two whom she had been talking to before – Robert and Kaitlin, Cobblepot reminded himself – had left. His gaze travelled over the other people sitting at the bar, and he saw Selina, still there. He frowned. She had been there for a while, and it was starting to make him suspicious. Perhaps she and White had had a fight, or she was trying to chat up some other poor sucker for some extra cash.

But, judging from the man she was currently talking with, she must have had some other ulterior motive for staying so long. His bright, rudimentary clothing and dishevelled appearance did not give the impression of money, nor did his overly-friendly mannerism – though, Cobblepot admitted, that could possibly be due to drinking. There was an empty glass sitting beside him on the bar, so the possibility was not out of the question.

Cobblepot looked up at the clock on the wall behind the bar. It was getting closer to six... that was when his richer clients, such as Warren White, usually came around. He glanced back at the man in the bright attire, considering asking him to leave for the night, when suddenly the man turned his head and Cobblepot caught sight of the scarring around his mouth...

Cobblepot's eyes grew wide. "Maggie!" he hissed, waving for Maggie's attention, motioning for her to come over. "Maggie!"

Maggie looked up in surprise at hearing her name being called, and when she saw Cobblepot indicating for her to go over, she instantly set down the glass she had been cleaning and went over to him. "What's the matter, Os?" she asked, frowning worriedly.

Cobblepot pointed to the bar, indicating Napier. "There," he said in an undertone. "That's the Joker."

Maggie gasped, her eyes growing wide as she turned back to Cobblepot. "That's him?" she exclaimed quietly.

Cobblepot nodded. "How long has he been here?" he asked, watching Napier closely.

Maggie looked back over at Napier, shaking her head. "A couple hours, I think," she said.

"He just sat down and...?" Cobblepot asked, frowning sceptically.

"Well," said Maggie thoughtfully, "he came in, sat down…" Then she frowned, turning back to Cobblepot. "He only had one drink," she told him, confused.

Cobblepot looked at her, frowning, also confused, then turned back and looked at Napier. "Oh, dear," he said. He reached into his pocket, frowning at Napier and Selina, and pulled out his cell phone. "I'm going to call Jeanette," he told Maggie as he flipped open the phone and began dialling. "She'll know what to do."

Cobblepot put the phone to his ear, waiting patiently as it rang. "Jeanette?" he asked when he picked up. "Jeanette, luv, I'm so glad I got you. Listen, I've no time for chit-chat. Your friend… or, rather, your not-friend," he corrected himself, remembering their earlier conversation, "well… he's here, and I think there might be something wrong with him. Please come quickly, because, quite frankly, I have no idea what to do with him." He paused, then sighed. "All right, I'll see you when you get here, luv," he said, and hung up the phone.

Cobblepot turned to Maggie, frowning worriedly. "Let's just hope he doesn't destroy the place before she comes," he said in a low voice.

Napier grinned, chuckling languidly, and leaned in towards Selina. "So when're we gonna go on back t' your place?" he asked.

Selina laughed uncomfortably. "Soon," she told him. She looked up at the clock on the wall, worried and annoyed, and then turned back to him, putting her hand on his leg. "I tell you what," she told him in a seductive voice, "why don't you go on outside and wait for me? I'll be right out, and then we can go to my place for some… excitement." She smiled at him, leaning forward so her cleavage was accentuated.

Napier stared at her cleavage, not even trying to hide his enthrallment, and grinned. "Sure," he said. "But you better come out quick, 'cause I'm ready to go." He raised his eyebrows at her, looking back up at her face, and got unsteadily to his feet from his barstool, catching himself against the bar before staggering out towards the exit.

Selina watched him leave, then grabbed up her purse, digging around for her cell phone. When she finally got it, she flipped it open and speed-dialled, putting the phone impatiently to her ear. When someone on the other end answered, she sighed, peeved. "Where _are_ you?" she demanded. "The psycho is drooling all over me and you're nowhere to be found."

Selina frowned as she listened to the person on the other line. "Yeah, I did. What exactly did you give me?" She listened for a moment, then scoffed. "Well, it didn't do that," she said. "Either it's working really, really slowly or he's got some kind of fucked-up immune system." She glanced at the clock. "Which wouldn't really be all that surprising," she added.

She glanced down at her nails, listening, then frowned. "I'm taking him back to your place," she said, looking up. "Hopefully you'll be able to get there before he tries to insert himself where he shouldn't." She crossed her arm over her chest, tucking it under her other elbow, still holding the phone to her ear. "I'm glad to see you're so concerned for my safety," she said sarcastically. "Don't worry that the guy's a fucking _behemoth_ with just one thing on his mind. God forbid I lose you an investment opportunity."

Selina sighed, looking back at her nails. "All right," she said, quieter. "I'll see you then." She closed the phone, staring at it for a long moment, then tucked it back in her bag, got up, and started after Napier.

"Fuck him. Fuck him, _fuck_ him, fuck 'im fuck 'im fuck 'im..."

Jeanette spoke in a singsong voice as she checked her hand gun and the locked door behind her one last time, then skipped down the stairs, taking them two at a time. "Fuck him, fuck him..._Let_ him _get_ fucked."

She was angry. No; more than angry. She was _completely fucking psycho_ with rage. Napier had the balls to completely ruin her life and plans, and then he went and got himself backed into a corner. And now she was expected to _help?_ What did Os think she was, stupid?

She sighed and hailed a cab, giving the driver directions to the Lounge. Well, apparently, she _was_ stupid, because helping Napier out was exactly what she intended to do.

There were no rationalizations she could use any more. She had no logical reason for continuing to bail him out of trouble, and still, she did. She crossed her arms and impatiently tapped her fingers on her biceps, snapping once or twice at the driver to speed the fuck up, what was she paying him for?

Jeannie Rose was safe back at the new apartment for now. She'd told the girl to stay in the bedroom and take a nap or something; Jeanette had some _business_ to take care of. The little girl hadn't questioned it, thank God. And there was little chance of Crane finding her; they had moved to her second backup the moment she'd gotten back from her field trip with Os, and she had made absolutely sure that they weren't being followed.

Too soon, she reached the Iceberg Lounge for the second time that day. "Well?" she called to Ozzie, stepping angrily over to the bar. She scanned the room. "Where the hell is he?"

"I think..." Cobblepot turned, looking around for him. "I think he went outside, but..." He glanced over to the bar, where Selina Kyle was sitting, looking slightly confused, then looked back towards the entrance of the Lounge. "No, wait," he said, touching her shoulder and indicating for her to turn around. "There he is."

Napier wandered back into the Lounge, looking around for Selina, but instead his eyes fell on Jeanette and Cobblepot. He squinted at them for a moment, frowning, then a bitter grin began to spread across his face. "Jeanette," he said, opening his arms to them. "And Ozzie." He lurched towards them, grabbing Jeanette around the shoulders and holding her tightly to his chest, using her to keep his balance. "I missed you so much," he said.

Cobblepot frowned. "Not your friend, Jeanette?" he asked slowly.

Napier let go of Jeanette and staggered back a step or two, grinning at her. "Th' child," he said. He paused, giggling. "Th' child," he said again, trying to keep a straight face but failing. "Did you know… did you… that…" He started giggling again, stumbling a bit as he bent, putting his hands on his knees, and tried to get rid of his sudden bout of laughter. "She… she…"

Napier started laughing harder than before. "Th' child," he repeated, for some reason finding it hilarious. Then he looked up, sniffing, and rubbed one watering eye with the palm of his hand. "Did you know… she…" He swallowed, squinting slightly at Jeanette. "Did you know she's mine?" he asked.

"You should leave quietly," Cobblepot said firmly to Napier. "Before I call security and have you escorted off the premises."

"An' who're you?" Napier asked, unamused. "Th' manager er sunthin'?"

"I own this place," Cobblepot replied, unamused. "And I would appreciate it if you would leave." He turned back to Jeanette. "Please do something about your not-friend," he said, "before I have to take more extreme measures."

"Not-friend?" Napier asked, staggering back a step. "Who says I'm not her friend? For all you know, we could be lovers." He grinned at Jeanette, stumbling over to her and taking her around the shoulders, pulling her close and pressing his lips to her head, giving her an enthusiastic kiss. "Isn't that right?" he asked, grinning down at her. "Aren't we lovers? At least, all I know is we slept together last night, an' I know _I_ liked it."

Cobblepot glared at Napier, his cool façade quickly cracking. Something about him talking about sleeping with Jeanette in such a casual tone, even in his current state, seemed to strike a chord with him. "I'm going to give you one last chance to leave," he said. "Then I'm going to call the police."

"Fuck you," mumbled Napier. "The cops don't scare me." Then he turned back to Jeanette. "That little girl, back at your apartment," he said, a strange smile starting to split his face again, "the one with the brown eyes… She…" He leaned down to her ear. "She's my daughter," he said in a little above a whisper. He pulled away from her, grinning at her. "Did you know that?" he asked, starting to giggle again. "My daughter. My fucking _daughter_ - a girl. A _girl!_"

He let go of Jeanette, stumbling away from her, and then turned back, throwing out his hands and spinning in a half-circle to face her again. "All these years," he exclaimed. "All this time, I thought my wife n' kid were dead. Well, you know what, they aren't." He dropped his arms, swallowing and wetting his lips. "No, but five years ago, all that time ago, my wife… she tells me… she says to me, Jack, she says… Jack, we're going to have a little boy. Well, you know what?" he exclaimed. He indicated in what he assumed was the direction of Jeanette's apartment. "That isn't a little boy. It's a girl. That's not what my wife told me we were having." He dropped his arm again, shaking his head. "Thass'not my child," he said harshly.

Then he looked away, a strange grin splitting his features. "And d'you know what else? Huh? You want to know? Not only is my child not a little boy…" He started to chuckle. "Not only is my child not a little boy, but my wife has gone missing, kidnapped by Crane…" His chuckling got more hysterical until it was a quiet laugh. "I have no idea what to do about it, and you… you said you'd help me, but instead you're…" He paused, looking up at Jeanette, and started to laugh hysterically. "You're out fucking this queer!" He indicated Cobblepot.

Cobblepot looked mortified. "That's it," he said, pulling his cell phone from his pocket and dialling. "I'm getting the GPD."

"No wait," said Napier, holding out a hand but not stopping his laughter. "Wait, there's more." Cobblepot glared at him, then clicked the phone closed, holding it at his side. Napier looked back at Jeanette. "I put all my trust in you," he said, "and this is how you repay me? By losing my wife, and then putting on a cold front whenever I try to talk to you?" Two tears skated down his face, but he did not stop laughing. If anything, his laughter grew harder, more hysterical. "You would gladly sleep with me, knowing my wife was still alive out there, and you find every way of not telling me what I need to know!"

He held up a threatening hand then, trying to hold himself steady. "Don't talk," he told her. "I'm not done yet." He swallowed, wetting his lips, and his breathy laughter kept going. "I do everything I can to earn your trust and respect, but why should I? _Look_ at me!" He indicated himself, and more tears fell down his face, but his laughter continued. "You would never respect someone like me. But that doesn't really matter. You know why?" He sniffed, more tears falling down his face, and his laughter subsided as he glared at her, indicating her threateningly.

"I don't want your respect anyways," he hissed. "What would I do with the respect of a coward?"

There was a long, long silence, during which Jeanette stared at Napier. Her lip twitched once or twice as if she was about to say something. Then something inside of her just _snapped._

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" She shoved him away from her, completely and utterly sick of his idiocy and childishness. "You're ridiculous. You're petty, and immature, and flashy and _stupid_, and worthless...Hell, you can't even do the one thing you're supposed to be _good_ at." She paused to take a breath. "And you can't even get over your poor, sad little past, that's fucked you over too many times to count. You're afraid of your own goddamn shadow. And _I'm_ supposed to be the coward?!"

Napier turned his head, frowning, and tried to fend off Jeanette's strikes, but she kept coming for him. Finally he turned back to her, grabbing her wrists, stopping her from hitting him. "You always get _physical,_" he grunted, straining to keep her from hitting him again. "And never in a good way. Must you always strike me?" He held her wrists firmly, fighting against her. She was smaller than he was, but when she got angry, she was a force to contend with. He remembered having just as much difficulty keeping her from fighting him when he had pinned her to the couch…

"You have...you have absolutely no right to call _me_ a coward. You're the one who can't get over the fact that your kid turned out to be a _fucking, godforsaken __girl_." She stepped back, shaking her head. This felt too familiar. "I was going to help. I was _going_ to, and God only _knows_ why, but I was going to. So way to screw up possibly the only good thing to happen in your sorry, miserable life."

This story was so familiar to Jeanette that it was impossible for her to stay neutral about it. She didn't cry; she was too angry to cry. She didn't yell at him any more, because she was drawing attention to herself. So, instead, she reached out and smacked him. It was so satisfying that she did it again. And again. She kicked him, threw punches, did everything she possibly could to hurt him as much as he'd hurt her. "You were supposed to _help_," she shouted, "you were supposed to fucking help, and you didn't do a damn _thing_. You just screwed up my life even more."

He pinned her arms to her sides, breathing heavily, and neared his face to hers. "Those are fighting words," he said in a low voice. "And I don't much appreciate you talking to me that way. You forget, I could take your head off right here, right now, if I wanted to. I could snap both your wrists…" He bent her wrists slightly to make his point. "…And you'd be totally helpless. Think about that for a second, why don't you, before you go throwing words out at me like that."

Napier paused to catch his breath, his expression darkening. "You know nothing about my past," he hissed. "You know nothing about what I go through every day, what I have to wake up to in the morning. Every day, I have to live knowing that there are people out there who have died so I could keep on living. Do you know how many times I've had to watch someone I cared about die?" He gritted his teeth, glaring at her. "Do you?" he demanded.

He paused, feeling slightly dizzy, and lowered his head, taking a deep breath. Then he looked back up at her. "Do you have any idea how many times I've wanted to kill myself," he said, emphasizing his words, "but couldn't, because I couldn't stop thinking about all those people?" He indicated with his hand. "I've wanted to end it all. I mean, _look_ at me! I have nothing to live for. But I can't just end it. Do you know why?" He put his hand back on her arm. "Because if I do, then people will look at me and say, that inappreciative bastard. How many people gave up their lives so he could live, however miserable his life was, and he selfishly took his own life, despite them?" Napier let out an unintentional, bitter bark of laughter. "It would be one great big 'fuck you' to everyone who ever cared about me!" he said.

Napier looked away then, trying to regain his composure. He let out a deep breath. Then his dark eyes returned to her face. "Kitty," he said slowly, "promised me that we were going to have a boy. Do you have any idea…" He took her shoulders and shook her slightly at these words, "What it's like to be told that the most important thing in your life, the thing that kept you going at a dead-end job, going through withdrawal, embarrassing yourself in front of strangers just to try to get better, was a lie?" Another tear skated down his cheek. "_Do_ you?" he demanded again, more forcefully this time.

He looked away, letting go of her shoulders and biting his lip as he tried to regain his composure. Then he turned back to Jeanette with a stern expression. "And if I remember correctly, Jeanette," he added, "_you're_ the one that keeps running back to _me._ Not the other way around." He passed a hand over his mouth, wiping away the tears on his cheeks as best he could with his shirt-sleeve. "So don't bitch to me about how I fucked up your perfect little life. You fucked it up when you took me off the street. And you continue to fuck it up every time you come back." He shook his head. "So don't blame me for your stupid mistakes," he said in a low voice.

Sick of all of this, Jeanette finally reached into her pocket and pulled out the hand gun. She looked for a moment at Os. "Call the police and I will _kill_ you," she told him, without a hint of hesitation in her voice, gesturing her head back towards the bar to get him to leave.

Then she turned off the safety. "And I could kill you _right now_ if I wanted to," she reminded Napier, aiming the gun at his head. Her finger pulled back a fraction of an inch. She paused, wavering, then released the trigger. "Just because you're the big bad man on campus doesn't mean that I couldn't take you out in a second. Sure, you could hurt me. But you haven't. You're all talk."

She paused, sneered at him. "You're so...wrapped up with yourself," she finally said, inspecting the gun in her hand. "Everyone in this _city_ wants to die, simply because they're living here." She thought of Kitty and Jeannie Rose; they were perfect examples. "And you're not the only one with an awful past. Look outside your little happy bubble and you might see that."

And Jeannie Rose. She might be totally stuck on that, but she didn't care. He was being a stuck-up bastard. "Fuck you and your expectations," she finally said, reaching forward and shoving his shoulders. "You call me pathetic, and here you are all broken up about having a girl instead of a boy. Girls are just as good as boys, if not _better_," she emphasized. The words felt familiar. Something told her that she'd said this to her father at some point. "And some day she's going to prove you wrong, and be better than you ever could be. And I'll just watch and laugh, and laugh, and laugh at how stupid you are."

"So you know what you're going to do?" She put the weapon back in her pocket, looking around. Heads quickly turned the other way. This little incident was going to cost her. "You're going to apologize, right now, for all the trouble you've caused me. You're going to go back to the apartment and apologize to the little girl you scared the shit out of. And then you're going to get the fuck out of my life, for the _last time_." She smiled pleasantly, anger still sparking in her eyes. "Peachy?"

Napier glared at the gun in her hand, then his dark eyes returned to her face. "You have… no idea," he said slowly, his voice shaking slightly, "what you're talking about." He shook his head slowly, swallowing. "You live a charmed life, Jeanette," he told her, his voice low. "You live in a state of bliss, where everyone is your pawn, and Gotham is your chessboard. You live a life of luxury, somewhere in the clouds above all the other little people of this city."

He took a step closer to her. "You have no idea what it's like to live in poverty," he hissed. "You have no idea what it's like to make minimum wage – or even less. You have never been addicted, and had to watch your addiction tear your fledgling family apart before it's even been given the chance to grow." He shook his head more vigorously. "You've never had to listen to the sound of your father beating your mother, until the one night when you no longer hear it and you know it's because your mother is finally _dead._"

Napier's expression grew darker with every statement. "You've never had children, so you have no idea what it's like to be a parent. You have no idea what it's like to count down the days, two-hundred-seventy days, until you finally get to hold that little…" He made a motion with his arms, as if cradling a baby, unsure of what words to say, then dropped his arms back to his sides. "And then it's ripped from you. Like someone just grabbed hold of your heart and tore it right out." He made a ripping motion in the air to emphasize his point.

He took her gun and placed it in the middle of his forehead, glaring at her, and wet his lips. "You want to shoot me?" he asked in a low voice. "Shoot me." A cruel, humourless, bitter smile crossed his face crookedly. "Do me the favour. Do yourself the favour. Do the girl the favour – hell, do the _world_ the favour." He stared at her for a long moment, challenging her wordlessly. Then he grabbed her hands, pushing the gun into his forehead.

"Go on, _shoot me!_" he exclaimed. "Don't just stand there, talking! You say I'm all talk and no action, and yet here you are, doing nothing but talk, talk, talk... well, who's the talker now, Jeanette?" He was getting all worked up again. "I'm not going to apologize to anyone and you know it, so you might as well just put us all out of our misery and end this whole godforsaken ordeal. You kill me, we're all happy!" He glared at her, his nose pressed flat in a hateful glare. "What are you waiting for, Jeanette?!" he exclaimed. "Just _do_ it already!"

He grabbed hold of her hands, almost taking the trigger himself, and jammed the gun more forcibly into his forehead.

"_Shoot_ me!" he shouted. "_Shoot me, you coward!_"

Jeanette simply stared at Napier for a moment, wild and wide-eyed. This was moving too fast; when had time sped up? She needed time to think this out, time to...to do _something_ other than stare at the gun pointing at his head and wonder if she should pull the trigger and...

Finally, she wrenched her hands away. The gun clattered to the floor. She stared at it for a moment, eyes tearing up, then looked back up at Napier. "No." It was barely a whisper, but somehow she fit all of her horror and shock and confusion into that one syllable. "I...no," she repeated, backing away a few steps. Her head had started shaking - when had it started shaking? "I can't. I...you...shit," she sobbed. "What did you...?"

This was his fault, all his damn fault. She was completely screwed up. Life had been just fine, all wine and roses, until she'd picked him up off that street corner. What the fuck had he done to her, reducing her to a sniveling coward? She sniffed, looking at the floor for a moment, then stormed past him to the door, leaving the gun.

Napier turned, watching her go past him. He glanced at the handgun on the floor, considering it, then turned and went after her. "Jeanette," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder and turning her to face him again. He put his hands on her shoulders, staring intently into her face. A haze was starting to fog up the corners of his vision, but he would not just let her go like that. He hesitated a moment, trying to conjure up some semblance of straightforward thinking.

"Shh, shh, shh, Jeanette," Napier slurred, cupping her face in his hands. He paused, holding her head, making her look at him as he spoke. Then he glanced down at his outfit, staring at it for a moment, before looking back up at her. "You wanna know where I got this outfit?" he asked. His dark eyes strayed for a moment before he looked back at her, his brow furrowed slightly. "During the fire, the one that destroyed my house," he began, "I managed to salvage just one thing from the wreckage, as it was collapsing all around me... I managed to get this."

He let go of her face with one hand and pulled lightly at the material of his shirt. Then he looked back at her. "D'you know what this is?" he asked. He wavered slightly, frowning as he tried to regain some semblance of composure, but he was starting to fade out. He shook his head a bit, looking back up at her. "It's a Halloween costume," he said, wetting his palate. "It was the costume Kitty made for me the Halloween before..."

His voice faded out as he looked away, seeming somewhat lost. Then an odd smile hinted faintly at the corner of his mouth. "She was pregnant," he said quietly. "She went as a pumpkin. I went as a clown..." He shook his head, the faint smile fading from his face. "I saw it as I was trying to get out of the house, and... something just triggered in my mind. It was like..." He frowned slightly, thinking, his grip on Jeanette's face slackening. "It was suddenly so important, because Kitty had made it for me... it was the only thing she had made for me during our short marriage."

Napier shook his head. "I couldn't leave it," he said quietly. "I became... obsessed. I had to rescue it." He looked back at her, his eyes glassy. Then he looked down at his outfit. "When they took me off to Arkham, it was the only thing they let me keep. Every inmate gets to keep something in the behind-the-scenes at Arkham, in case they get released someday and want to reclaim it... mine was this outfit." He shook his head, staring intently at the outfit. "This was all I had left of Kitty," he said.

There was a long moment of silence as he stared down at his outfit. Then he looked up at her, his eyes distant. "I dunno why I'm... telling you this," he said. He put both hands to her face again, nearing his face to hers. "But I just... thought you ought to know." He paused, his nose almost touching hers, his eyes fluttering half-closed. He neared his lips to hers, hesitating before their mouths touched, lingering there for a long moment. Then he pulled his face away, staring down at her.

"You had a chance," he said in a low voice. "You had so many chances... and you passed them all up." He shook his head slowly as he let go of her face and stumbled back a step. "And now you're all out of chances," he told her. He glanced over to where Selina Kyle was moving towards the two of them, primping her hair. She looked up at him with a large, false smile.

"You ready to go, Joseph?" she asked, taking his arm in hers and batting her eyelashes at him.

Napier looked down at her and gave her a wide, boozy grin. "I've_ been _ready," he replied, raising his eyebrows. "Where were _you?_"

She giggled, hollow and fake. "You're so silly," she said, patting his arm. "I was doing something. Don't worry about me." She smiled widely up at him, brushing her cleavage against his arm. "Shall we?" she asked. "We'll catch a cab back to my place. And then..."

Napier's smile widened. "You'll take advantage of me," he finished her statement.

"Of _course,_" she agreed slowly. She looked up at Jeanette, a wide, knowing smirk on her face. "I'm sorry, I'm going to have to steal Joseph from you," she said with a false smile. "He's a little drunk." She took Napier by the arm and led him to go out the door, but he slipped his arm from her grasp, glancing back towards Jeanette. There was a long moment of silence.

"Are you coming, Joe?" Selina asked, frowning slightly.

Jeanette looked venomously at Kyle for a minute, then sighed and put a hand to her head, closing her eyes. "Wait." She took a deep breath. "You asked me why I didn't have a boyfriend, the night that you...you know." She paused awkwardly. "I...did. I did for a long time, back in Italy. Just one. We...got engaged."

She let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. "It was really serious. The family liked him..." - always the damn _family_ - "and life was good for a while. And then we found out he wasn't as perfect as he seemed. _I_ found out." She paused. That was a painful memory to bring up. "He called the cops on my entire family."

She choked out a bitter laugh. "Everyone else knew; they'd known for months, they told me later, but they hadn't told me. It was to teach me a lesson." She shook her head and continued, "So they all got into hiding, and I was carted off to jail."

"He could have left it at that. The bastard could have just disappeared - instead, he came to my cell that night and told me that it had _all_ been a trick, that he'd been playing me the whole time, he was an undercover cop..." She put a hand over her eyes to rub away any tears before they could fall, then removed it after a moment and looked Napier in the eye.

"I know you don't care. But...maybe it'll explain why...you know." Her own eloquence astounded her; she tried again. "I'm blaming this on you, but I've got...part of the blame." She paused, then corrected herself, "A _lot_ of the blame." Then she looked again at Kyle, and back to his face helplessly. She wasn't going to ask, just like he wasn't going to apologize; it was a matter of pride. Besides, he could do whatever he wanted with whoever he wanted.

No matter how she might feel.

"What a touching story," Selina said sarcastically. She took hold of Napier's arm again, pulling him slightly towards the exit. "Come on, Joe," she said, with almost a flirtatious whine to her voice. "Let's _go._"

"Wait," Napier said, holding out a hand to stop her. He turned back to Jeanette, frowning slightly as he tried to keep his eyes open. It was getting harder to do; he felt himself getting unexplainably drowsy. "I _do_ care," he said, trying to keep a stolid expression. "And… it all makes perfect sense now. But…"

"But he's coming with _me,_" Selina said, leaning past Napier to talk to Jeanette. She turned back to Napier, batting her eyelashes at him and pressing herself against his arm. "Come on, big boy," she said. "You look sleepy. Perhaps you should come back to my place and take a nap." She smiled, fake. "Though I doubt you'll be getting much sleep," she said with perhaps too much enthusiastic emphasis.

Napier looked back at Selina. "What?" he asked, blurry.

"That's what I thought," she said. She turned back to Jeanette. "Sorry to break up your little _pity-party_ here," she told her, "but I'm going to have to steal Joseph from you. We've got _plans._" She turned, pulling Napier out the door of the Iceberg Lounge after her. Before he disappeared out the door, Napier turned and looked back at Jeanette one last time.

"I'm not like him," he told her. Then he was gone.

"Liar." It was barely more than a murmur, and he was already gone, anyways. Jeanette sighed and picked up her gun from the floor. For maybe the first time, it felt uncomfortable in her hand. Unclean, almost. So she frowned and slipped it back into her pocket.

Only then did she turn to Ozzie, who was still nearby despite her attempt to banish him back to the bar. She tried a half-hearted grin, then headed over to the bar. "Maggie, I could _really_ use a drink," she said, slumping into one of the bar stools. "Don't care what, and you can just put it on my tab; I promise I'll pay later."

She rested her chin in her hands, then sat up and turned again to Os. "Who was she, anyways?" she asked, nodding towards the door.

"Her?" Cobblepot let out a deep breath, coming over to the bar and sitting next to Jeanette, shaking his head. "That's Selina Kyle. Warren White's girl. I hadn't heard that they had broken up, but…" He shrugged, looking over towards the door. "Perhaps she's just trying to pull something," he said. "Make White jealous, so he'll get her something, or…" He shook his head again, looking back at Jeanette. "I don't know. Maybe she just got tired of the same old…" He paused. "…Thing," he finished.

"Stop it, Os," Maggie scolded him lightly, flipping the end of the cloth she had been cleaning a glass with in his direction. "Now's not the time for your silly double entendres. Can't you see the girl's upset?"

"Do you think I'm totally insensitive, Maggie?" Cobblepot asked. "I can see that something's wrong." He turned to look at Jeanette. "And I'm pretty sure I know what it is, too," he added, in a lower voice.

"You look so unhappy, dear," Maggie said, setting down the glass she had been polishing and staring intently at Jeanette, her brow furrowed in worry. "Can I do anything to make it better?"

"You can not treat her like a child, Maggie," Cobblepot suggested. "Jeanette's a grown woman. She can take care of herself."

"Oh, buzz off, Os," Maggie told him, flipping the end of the cloth at him again. "You don't know what it's like to be in love with someone who doesn't show you the affection you desire."

"Oh, but I _do,_ Maggie," Cobblepot sighed. "Brad Pitt hasn't returned a single one of my letters…" He offered Maggie a reassuring smile, then slid off his barstool and started off towards the back room. Maggie turned back to Jeanette with a sigh, leaning on the counter top, setting down the rag beside her.

"He's just a little _confused,_ Jeanette," she reassured the younger woman. "This man of yours." She paused then, frowning slightly, and picked up the cloth again, starting to clean a spot on the counter in slightly nervous circles. "Um, Jeanette," she said, sounding a bit awkward, "you do know that this… man, this… love of yours…" She looked up at Jeanette then, seeming concerned. "You do know he's… the _Joker_, right?"

She looked back down at the counter, starting to clean in slightly larger circles now. "Of course, I was surprised when I learned it, too, just now… Os just told me, but I would never have guessed, otherwise…" She stopped, staring at the already-clean counter, and then dropped the cloth and turned back to Jeanette. "To tell the truth, dear," she said, "he seems like he could be a wonderful person, if you could just…" She made a motion with her hands, as if trying to find the right words, but none came to mind, and she gave up.

"He just needs a little _discipline,_ is all," she finally said, picking up the clean glass and starting to polish it again. Then she looked up at Jeanette. "And he seems very… sad," she said, in an almost wistful tone. She stared at a spot on the counter for a long moment. "I mean, he just… exerts this… _sadness._ Almost as if… he could make the people around him unhappy just by… _existing_." She looked back up at Jeanette. "I know that doesn't make much sense," she said, going back to cleaning the glass, "but… I think he just needs a little bit more…"

Maggie shrugged, trying to find the right thing to say. Then she set down the glass. "Let me tell you what I've gathered about him," she said. "He's not very bright. That's almost a given. You can look at him and see that, plain as the scars on his face. And he's sad. Very sad." She shook her head, looking away for a moment. Then she looked back at Jeanette. "And the last thing I noticed about him, when you and he were facing off, just then…" She smiled, faintly.

"He loves you," she said.

Maggie watched Jeanette's expression for a moment longer, then glanced down at her drink. "Your drink is on the house," she told her.

Jeanette smiled at Os as he walked away, then turned to Maggie again with a "thanks" for the free drink. She looked at the glass for a moment, then back up. She felt the need to explain herself and the situation; Maggie couldn't go on thinking what she apparently did.

"Maggie..." She refused to meet the other woman's eyes. She wasn't used to feeling embarrassed. "It's not like that. At all. I approached him for a...business opportunity about a week ago, and now we both happen to be..." She thought for a moment, toying with her drink. "We're looking for the same thing, so I was _going_ to work with him again." She scowled. "We are _not_ involved like...that."

Then she sat and pondered what Maggie said she'd "discovered." Jack didn't love her. People who loved you didn't try to rape you, or constantly let you down. People who loved you didn't put a gun to their head and tell you to _shoot_ them. Maggie must not be that good of a judge of people, Jeanette finally decided as she drained her glass. And _she_ most certainly didn't...love Jack. Or, rather, Napier. She reached into her purse for some money, ignoring the other woman's generosity. "Thank you for everything," she said with a smile that finally reached her eyes, as she slid a few dollars across the counter. Then she turned to leave.

"Is he married?" Maggie spoke up before she even realized what she was saying. She paused, realizing it had been a sudden question, but not an entirely random one. Jeanette seemed so… nervous, about the whole ordeal, saying they were merely business associates interested in achieving the same goals. It seemed a little odd… in the same way Os always described himself and Maggie as being 'good friends'. Maggie picked up her cloth and began to polish the already-clean countertop with it in anxious circles.

"I'm not trying to be nosy, mind," Maggie said, shrugging. She looked back up at Jeanette. "It's just… some people think of things in different ways. For example," she leaned on the counter, neglecting her polishing, "that little incident the two of you had, just moments ago… where he, you know…" She made a motion, indicating pointing a gun to her head, then dropped her hand. "I know there was nothing seemingly _remotely_ loving about that, but…"

She paused, picking up the cloth and passing it between her hands. "It's complicated," she said, shrugging. "He told you to do it because he knew you wouldn't. You see? Because he _trusts_ you. No matter what he says, he _trusts_ you. And trust is the first step towards…" Her voice trailed off, and she started polishing the counter-top again. "Well, it's really none of my business, Jeanette," she said with a sigh. "Think whatever you like. It's not my place to interfere."

"No, it's not," Cobblepot put in, coming out from the back room, holding a smouldering cigarette. He put the cigarette in his mouth and took a drag, then let out the smoke slowly. "It's really none of our concern, either of us." He shrugged, glancing over at Maggie. "She obviously doesn't want your help, Maggie, otherwise she'd have taken your advice." He looked back at Jeanette. "She's obviously too proud to realize she's crazy about this... nut."

Cobblepot took another long drag of the cigarette, watching Jeanette with a knowing, calculating look. "I've been around for too long to be fooled by empty, hurt words," he told her. "This may have started out as just a business endeavour, Jeanette, but..." He shrugged, looking down at the dwindling end of his cigarette, and sighed. "It's become – probably on accident, I'm not making any accusations, here... let he without sin throw the first stone and all that – something a bit, well..." He looked back up at Jeanette. "More," he finished.

The usual amiable smile did not cross his face as he put the cigarette back in his mouth and took another drag. Then he blew out a line of smoke, dragging out the silence.

"Am I wrong?" he asked.

Jeanette paused at the door, and turned slowly around to look at Os. Apparently, she wasn't getting away that easily. She heaved a sigh and walked back, somewhat defeated.

But she was _not_ going to go down without a fight. So to speak.

"Fine, let's say you're right," she told Os, propping her hands on her hips stubbornly. "How the hell do either of us benefit from that? He _is_ married," she said, mostly to Maggie, "or so I assume..." She paused a moment to think about that. Kitty and Jack had been married when Kitty lost her memory and Jack was taken away to Arkham. Nothing had changed in the few years that they hadn't seen each other. So it stood to reason that they were still married.

_Jack_ obviously still thought so.

"Anyways," she finally continued, waving a hand as if to dispel that thought, "we're both not the most...respectable people." A murderer and an assassin, she thought. What a pair. "We don't get along, he's an absolute idiot, I don't typically have 'feelings' for people..." She ticked each point off on her fingers, dissatisfied when she had to pause, out of ideas. She looked down at her hand, then up at the two.

"And there isn't a chance he'd return those 'feelings'," she finally said, looking Os straight in the eye. "Am _I_ wrong?" she mimicked.

"You assume?" Maggie asked, looking confused.

Cobblepot waved it off. "There are a lot of things that make a marriage questionable," he said dismissively. "And I would assume this man either doesn't think he's still married, or his current marriage is teetering on the edge of destruction, because…" He chuckled bitterly, holding the cigarette a little ways away from his mouth, ready to put it back in. "He certainly doesn't _act_ married."

Maggie sighed. "Some men just aren't ready to commit," she said wistfully, picking up her cloth and starting to clean the now-shining counter once again.

"I think he just married too young," Cobblepot argued. "He couldn't be more than thirty. Maybe even still in his twenties. A young man."

"Or maybe his wife left him," Maggie said, tossing down her cloth with perhaps a bit too much emphasis. "Maybe she left him because he just didn't understand her." She leaned on the counter, staring squarely at Cobblepot. "Maybe he simply refused to appreciate her."

"Or maybe she left him because he was a drunk," Cobblepot added, oblivious. "That's legitimate grounds for divorce."

"He's not a _drunk,_" Maggie countered, picking up her cloth and starting to clean the counter in slow, small circles, sounding almost as if she, herself had been hurt by the description. "He just has a little trouble _controlling his impulses._" Her eyes returned to Cobblepot, and she set the cloth aside. "We all do, sometimes."

"Well, some of us are better at controlling our so-called _impulses,_ Maggie," Cobblepot answered, incredulous. "Because some of us _try._"

"You just don't get it, do you, Os?" Maggie asked, exasperated.

Cobblepot stared at her for a long moment, the cigarette smouldering in his hand. He put it to his lips, took a long drag, then let the smoke seep slowly out of his mouth. Then he shrugged. "Haven't the foggiest, my dear," he answered candidly. He smiled genially at Maggie, then turned back to Jeanette. "All I know, Jeanette, luv, is that if you hold these feelings in for too long... they'll only hurt you."

"Keeping feelings locked up inside will make you sick," said Maggie with a long, defeated sigh, picking up her cloth again and starting to clean Jeanette's glass with it. "It's best just to let them out."

"Does he know where you are living, currently?" Cobblepot asked, blowing out a quick breath of smoke. "If he doesn't, you should leave the address here, in case he should come meandering back, looking for you..."

"If he's any kind of smart at all, he will," Maggie added in an almost longing tone.

Cobblepot raised his eyebrows. "If he starts thinking with the correct head, that is," he added.

"He doesn't have to think with his head," Maggie said, turning to look at him. "All he has to do is listen to his heart. It will tell him what to do."

"Maggie, darling," said Cobblepot with a smile, "you're such a hopeless romantic. And that's what I love about you." He turned back to Jeanette. "But the sad truth is, you've fallen for a man who thinks from the scrotum. And he's going to continue to think that way until somebody sets him right." He took another drag of his cigarette. "Don't you think you're the perfect person for the job?" he asked, exhaling the smoke through his nose.

"But if he's still happily married, don't tear him away from his wife," Maggie said, looking firmly at Jeanette.

Cobblepot frowned and turned to face Maggie. "What kind of thing is that to say, Magpie?" he asked with an incredulous scoff. "Jeanette isn't the kind of person to go after a happily married man." He turned back to Jeanette with a kindly smile. "Well, run along, now," he said. "You've got that little girl of yours to take care of." He motioned for her to leave. "Go on, shoo," he said. He put the cigarette back in his mouth, smiling at her.

"If your lover comes back around," he told her, winking, "we'll send him in the right direction."

Jeanette was torn. She didn't tell other peoples' secrets (unless it served her, but that was not the case here), but Ozzie and Maggie were so _wrong_ it almost hurt. So she just stood and fooled with her ponytail for a moment. "It's complicated," she explained, pulling a piece of paper from her purse and writing down her new address on it. Hell, maybe Os' suggestion wasn't a bad one.

The reminder about Jeannie Rose made her eyebrows shoot up. "Oh, shit," she muttered, and nearly ran out of the Lounge. "Thank you!" she called again over her shoulder, and the door swung shut behind her.


	42. Chapter FortyOne

The door of the apartment opened, and Selina Kyle slipped inside, leading Napier by the hand. She shut the door behind her, locking it, and, before she could react, Napier had grabbed her around the waist and pressed his mouth to hers, kissing her lustily. Selina took a gasping breath, trying to regain her composure, and she took him by the tie, putting a hand over his mouth. "My, my, you're an eager boy!" she said, breathing heavily. "But first, before we do anything, I have a few questions for you…"

"Don't talk," Napier said, pulling her hand from his mouth and locking mouths with her again, unbuttoning his vest and pulling it off, tossing it aside as he moved her towards the couch in the front room. He ran his mouth down her neck, undoing his tie, pulling it out of his collar and dropping it to the floor. "Talk ruins everything."

"But I have to know…" Selina breathed heavily, closing her eyes, her brow furrowing slightly. This was not enjoyable at all, and she had to work hard not to be completely revolted by what she was doing. "I have to know… who is your friend?"

Napier shook his head, starting to unbutton his collared shirt. "She's not my friend," he said. "Don't talk about her. I'm not interested in her." He pressed his mouth to hers again, kissing her lustily. "I'm only interested in you," he told her between kisses. "You're the only one… who really thinks of me… as a person." He coaxed her roughly down onto the couch, still kissing her vigorously. "And not as an animal… or a monster."

"Oh, Joseph," she said, her expression starting to turn to one of worry. "You move so quickly! Be gentle with me."

"Fuck that," Napier breathed, starting to pull her sleeves down her shoulders. He reached down, fumbling with the button and zipper of his pants, finally managing to get both undone, and put a hand on her leg, pushing her slitted dress up her thighs. He had started to pull his own pants down when he suddenly stopped. He panted, staring down at Selina, his eyes blurry, his expression blank. "I…" he started to say, but nothing else would come out. He swallowed, his eyelids starting to close slightly. "I…" he tried to say again, but again he stopped, unable to go on.

"Are you okay, Joe?" Selina asked, seeming less concerned for his well-being than for her own.

He looked at her, his mouth hanging slightly open, his eyes half-closed. "I…" he tried one last time. Then he lay his head down on her bosom, asleep.

Selina stared at him for a long moment, considering the awkwardness of the moment. "Well, shit," she said, looking away. "Why couldn't he have done that a fucking _hour_ ago?" She looked down at the man asleep on top of her, his shirt somewhat unbuttoned, his pants around his thighs, showing off his generic boxers. She was almost disappointed. She had been expecting something wild and zany, like purple-and-green stripes, but they were an unexciting shade of grey.

Selina picked up the sleeping man's heavy arm and checked the time on the watch he wore. "Six-thirty," she said with an annoyed sigh, letting the arm drop back into place. She glanced down at Napier again, and let out an indignant huff of breath. "Great," she hissed.

Straining slightly, Selina pushed the heavy, sleeping man off of herself, taking a relieved gasp of air as the heavy body fell to the floor. She swung her legs around, off the couch, and, standing, pulled her dress back down her legs, smoothing it out, then teased at her hair for a moment. Then she looked back down at the sleeping man on the floor, and, with an annoyed grunt, she delivered a sharp kick to his side.

"Fucking prick," she muttered, her hands returning to her hair.

. . .

Maria looked up at the clock for the first time in what felt like hours. She worked a kink out of her neck, wincing in pain. Actually, it _had_ been hours; three, to be precise, during which she'd been bent, unmoving, over her maps and notes, staring at the little red spots and wishing some answers would just magically appear.

And now it was suddenly five-thirty, and she was going to be late for the AA meeting. She sighed, irritated, and pulled a coat on over her t-shirt. There was no use getting dressed up. She'd stay for the meeting, just to be polite to Aidan and the other members there, then get some answers from Gerald afterward. There was no other reason for her to be there, unless the Joker decided to show up.

She paused at the thought, then slowly reached into a desk drawer and removed a hand gun from it. She put it in an inside pocket of her coat, then grabbed her keys and headed for the parking lot. She had to turn the key three times to get the stupid piece of junk started, then she turned the radio up and pulled out of the lot, praying that she'd get some answers tonight.

. . .

Eddie paced back and forth in front of the water-table, one hand in his pocket, the other clutching his plastic cup perhaps a little too tightly as he tried to find the courage he had gotten up earlier that day. He checked the clock up on the wall of the AA meeting-room nervously, then went back to his tight pacing. It was just past six, which meant that Gerald would arrive at any moment. When Gerald arrived, that usually meant that they had to go through the motions until the meeting was over, which would take anywhere from one to two hours.

He did not know if he could hold onto his newfound courage for that long. Thankfully, he did not have to. He went to take a drink of water, and, upon looking up, caught sight of Maria. He almost choked on the water he had been drinking, but caught himself, instead setting his cup of water down on the counter and waving to Maria. "Maria!" he said, not too loud, so as not to draw attention to himself. "Maria, over here!"

Totally forgetting about his cup of water, Eddie made his way through the crowd to Maria, and finally stood in front of her, smiling amiably, if a bit shyly. "H-hi," he said. He could feel a blush coming up, and he tried to push it back down, but was having trouble. He could feel his ears starting to burn. "Welcome back," he told her, trying not to stutter again. "I'm glad you decided to come back. It's a great exp- um, it's a great… they're…"

He stopped, feeling the blush rising again. He had messed up, and he had not even gotten around to anything even remotely embarrassing. "Um," he said, looking away. He was saved when he noticed Gerald entering the room and looking around. "Hey, there's Gerald," he said, relieved. "The, uh… the meeting should start soon." He glanced back at Maria, embarrassed. "You wanna, um… you wanna sit together?" he asked.

Gerald checked the clock up on the wall of the AA meeting-room. It was five minutes past six, and he expected all of the late arrivers had already come in, so he clapped his hands, getting the attention of everyone in the room. "Is everyone here?" he asked. "Are we all assembled?" He looked around at all the familiar faces, and one unfamiliar one, and smiled, fatherly. "Good. Let's take our seats, shall we?" He sat down in his own seat, crossing one ankle over his opposite knee as he watched everyone getting into whatever seats they chose to sit in.

There was no particular seating order; no one had ever had assigned seats. Gerald let people sit next to whoever they chose, so that if people managed to form new friendships while in the AA group, they would be able to sit next to their new friends. It was a good way to let them get more comfortable in what might have been a very uncomfortable position for most, as Gerald had come to realize.

Eddie tucked his hands into his pockets, shrugging his shoulders up to his ears as he watched Maria take her seat, then quickly he slipped into the seat next to hers. He offered her a quick smile, then turned his attention back to Gerald, tucking his hands between his thighs so they would not shake.

Gerald folded his hands in his lap, waiting patiently until everyone had taken their seats, then smiled around at them as a group. He leaned forward, locking his eyes on Maria, and winked at her. "Decided we weren't such a bad group after all, huh?" he asked. "At least, you decided to come back. That's a step." He paused then, looking around at the rest of the circle, and then looked back at Maria, slightly confused. "Where's your friend?" he asked. "Aidan. Is he sick?"

Eddie glanced over at Maria again, frowning slightly. He had been so concentrated on talking to her that he had not even noticed that Aidan was not present at the meeting. He and Aidan had never really been the best of friends, but he felt bad for not even noticing his absence. "He's just sick, I'm sure," he said, nodding along with Gerald's guess. "He always comes."

Gerald stared at Eddie for a moment, then shrugged. "I'm sure he's got a good reason for not being here," he said. Then he turned his attention to the newcomer in the group, locking him with his intensely blue eyes, and offered him a warm, welcoming smile, "I believe we have a new member," he said. "Would you care to introduce yourself? We go on a first-name-only basis around here," he reminded the man. He grinned at him. "It's what keeps us _anonymous._"

As Maria seated herself, she couldn't help but marvel at the bag of nerves who seemed so intent on getting her attention. His name was Eli, she thought, or maybe Ethan...no, Eddie. That was it. She shot Eddie a curious, sidelong glance, then settled back into her seat. He was...well, cute wasn't the right word. Endearing, maybe. If she was the sort of person who endearing people affected.

Which she wasn't.

Then looked at Gerald sharply when he mentioned Aidan's absence. She flushed, embarrassed at not noticing, but the humiliation quickly turned to puzzlement. Why hadn't he come? He'd promised. Not that it meant anything, but she had the feeling that he wouldn't have lied to her.

Thinking back on the sad, abandoned face he'd given her when he'd asked her to come again, she was convinced.

So what had happened? Had he changed his mind? Or had something happened? She didn't like to think about that, so she sat back and tried to relax. "Not sure. I haven't talked to him." The meeting would be over before she knew it, she told herself, and then she could get down to business.

Thomas, who was sitting with an ankle crossed over his knee in an anxious position, looked at Gerald for the first time. He'd been busy scanning the faces of the other people here, reminding himself how different he was from them. He wasn't an alcoholic. He didn't have a _problem_. He just wanted to make sure he didn't develop one. For the sake of Emily's memory.

So when Gerald asked him for a name, he frowned. "Thomas," he said, but added quickly with an earnest half-smile, "and I'm not really a new _member_. I'm just...visiting." It sounded lame, and he knew it, so he tried to compensate. "I mean, I'm not an...I don't usually..." He put a hand to his hair automatically, ruffling through it with an almost apologetic grin. "Thomas," he finally finished, collapsing back into his seat and looking away.

This wasn't going to be fun. And now he wanted a drink more than _ever_.

Gerald smiled, fatherly, at Thomas. "Of course," he said, emphasizing his words. "Everyone say hello to our newest member, Thomas." His suggestion was followed by a collective, "Hello, Thomas."

"Hello, Thomas," Eddie said, smiling genially at him.

Gerald turned back to Maria. "You haven't heard a word from him?" he asked, sounding worried. He frowned slightly, leaning back in his chair, and exhaled heavily. "Well, there's nothing we can do about that," he said quietly. "I guess we just… lost another member." He shrugged, looking sad. "It's happened before," he said, his eyes straying, shaking his head slightly.

He stayed that way for a long moment, then turned back to the group. "Sorry," he said. "I've just been doing this for a while, and… it's always sad to see someone who has been making progress slip back into the trap of…" He shook his head, his voice fading out. "Well, that's a grim subject," he said, looking up again. "And I don't expect anyone here is going to go down that bleak path." He smiled around at the small gathered group, his gaze resting particularly on Thomas.

"_Admitting_ you have a problem is the first step," he said. "I had a problem, too, once. A long time ago. But I admitted I had a problem, and I sought the proper help, and I haven't gone back to it for almost thirty-three years." He nodded, proud of his story. "I'm just one success story," he said, looking away from Thomas. "But every single one of you will be able to tell the same story one day. About how you looked your addiction _right in the eye…_" Again, his gaze returned to Thomas. "And how you _beat_ it."

Thomas peered curiously at the woman who Gerald was speaking to about a friend who was, apparently, missing. That part didn't interest him much. What did was the woman herself. She was oddly familiar. He finally caught himself staring when she turned to look at him, and his eyes darted immediately back to Gerald.

That feeling he often got when he was teetering on the edge of a big story was flaring up. He'd have to figure out who she was.

He then frowned. This man who knew nothing about him was making assumptions. Thomas didn't like that. "I don't have a problem. I don't have an _addiction_," he said clearly, enunciating precisely. "I just wanted to make sure nothing would happen." He cut himself off there, about to go into a long-winded speech. What did he have to explain to these people? Nothing, that's what. They made their own decisions and got themselves into trouble for it.

He...he just had an appearance to keep up, for the sake of his work. He couldn't afford to have anything like an addiction to happen, so he was catching it before it started. He nodded to himself. Yeah, that was it.

Maria frowned sadly. Surely Aidan hadn't gone back to his alcoholism, after how good he'd seemed only a few nights ago. But maybe that was how this sort of thing worked, she thought, looking around at the people in the room. They were all normal, everyday folks you'd find at work, or out walking on the street, or playing with their kids in the park...maybe alcoholism was just something that changed you into something else.

Her gaze paused on the latest addition to the group, the man who called himself Thomas. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar; Maria couldn't help but wonder whether she'd met him before, or just seen him around the city. The second was unlikely, considering the sheer number of people that lived in Gotham. But the first was equally ridiculous. She hadn't gone out to any sort of social event since her involvement in the Crane and Joker cases. At that thought, she sat up a bit straighter.

Had he been at the gala?

She furrowed her brow, momentarily distracted from the thought of Aidan, and crossed her arms over her chest, inserting her thumbnail into her mouth and watching Thomas. He _had_ to have been there, she decided. He'd been one of the was good with faces, and most of the details of that night were ingrained in her mind, anyways. She was sure he'd been there, photographing couples and attempting to snag both quotes and free drinks from the waiters. Not an alcoholic? She smirked. Of _course_ not.

Then another realization hit her as quickly as the first. He was Thomas _Hale_, the creator of all those recent articles in the papers about the incompetency of the Gotham police force. And the Joker, she realized. She fidgeted uncomfortably. Now she _really_ wanted the meeting to be over. He probably had information that could help her find Napier and end all of this.

Gerald smiled at him. "Of course," he said slowly. "We all have trouble admitting we have a problem, at first. But getting it out is just easier." He turned back to the other members of the group. "Who would like to share with Thomas how admitting they had an addiction helped them?" he asked.

Eddie instantly sprang up from his seat. Now was his opportunity to show Maria that he was not a nervous wreck, or a useless lump. He grinned, tucking his hands into his pockets. "I had a big problem," he said. "I had a bad addiction to drugs. Bad drugs. Really bad drugs. But I admitted I had a problem," he put a hand to his heart, "and Gerald helped me to find out how to get over it." He indicated Gerald, then.

Gerald nodded. "Thank you, Eddie," he said. Eddie nodded in response and sat back down, feeling much better about himself. Then Gerald turned back to Thomas. "You see?" he said. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. If you don't admit it, you can't treat it." He shrugged. "Why don't you just open up to us?" he asked. "We are not here to judge you. We are only here to help you."

"Alright, fine, fine," Thomas said, caving much more quickly than he'd planned. He figured that going along with these guys would be easier than denying it; the roaring headache throbbing in his skull wasn't helping much, either. "I have a problem. I drink...too much."

He sighed and held out his hands. "Happy?" He slumped back in his seat and glared, childlike, at Gerald. Then he wondered if he was going about this the wrong way. He _had_ come for help, as Gerald had just said. Maybe it would be beneficial to him to open up more. So he leaned forward a bit, putting his fists on his knees, and sighed.

"I started drinking pretty heavily in college," he told the group, avoiding everyone's eyes and, instead, focusing his own on the floor. "Parties, football games, and all that. And then I met my wife, and things started getting better for a while." Emily hadn't approved of his habits, not one bit. He'd had to change, or he would have lost her. The thought made him uncomfortable now, so he just went on. "She died a little over a year ago, and I...started up again." He stopped there. Maybe he'd been a little spare on the details, but that was the general gist of it.

Eddie leaned forward in his seat and looked over at Thomas, his brow furrowed. "Gosh," he said quietly. "That's... so sad."

Gerald nodded, frowning slightly, staring pitiably at Thomas, his expression oddly thoughtful. "You see?" he said. "Doesn't that feel better?" He turned back to the rest of the group. "Aren't we all glad to know that?" he asked. He turned back to Thomas. "Getting it out helps. If I had kept my story inside, I'm certain it would have eventually killed me." He took a deep breath, then let it out, sad.

"Love is a very powerful force," he said, looking away. "It causes us to do crazy things... and it motivates us to do things we would never have been able to do otherwise." He looked back up at Thomas. "It's amazing how many people come in here, determined to get better for a loved one, and end up as success stories." Then he looked away again, his expression distant. "And then there are those less fortunate," he said quietly. "Those who are doing so well... and then tragedy strikes."

His blue eyes returned to Thomas' face. "I'm sorry I keep singling you out," he said, his brow slightly furrowed, "but... you remind me of someone I knew... a long time ago." He smiled faintly at Thomas. "It's ever so slight, how you and he are similar, in my mind, but..." He shrugged, folding his hands in his lap. Then his expression turned to one of interest.

"What was her name?" he asked. "Your wife." He shrugged then, casual. "Only out of general interest," he said, nodding reassuringly.

No, it did not feel fucking better. Thomas kept his gaze on the ground, leaning back in his seat in an unconscious effort to get away from the spotlight. He didn't want attention, or pity, from these people. He wanted to get better.

What Gerald said made a lot of sense. Thomas was beginning to see why this group seemed to almost hero-worship him. He was one of them, had been through what a lot of them were going through, and had good advice.

"Emily," he murmured after taking a deep breath. "Her name was Emily." That one little word, "was", hurt so damn much. He blinked away the sudden moisture in his eyes. "Sorry."

Gerald nodded slowly, the sadness in Thomas' tone and the silence permeating throughout the group. It had been a hard session for everyone, what with the possibility that they had lost another member, along with the grief of their newest member – or, _visitor,_ as he insisted he was – had been taxing on everyone in the group, most of all Gerald. "I'm… so sorry," he said quietly, looking away from Thomas. The fact that the pain was so fresh, in Thomas' case, was what hit him the hardest.

He let out a long sigh, his eyes moving to the clock on the wall. Then his expression changed to one of surprise. He checked his watch, then looked back at the clock on the wall. "Oh, dear," he said, frowning. "It's past seven. The meeting was supposed to _end_ at seven." He looked back at them. "I'm so sorry for keeping you all over time," he said, holding out his hands in apology.

"That's okay, Gerald," said Eddie, getting up from his chair. The other regulars all murmured in agreement; no one really minded spending extra time in the friendly environment. "So, next Thursday at six?" Eddie asked.

"Make it seven," said Gerald. "It gives people more time to get here."

"All right," said Eddie, nodding and smiling at Gerald. "Thursday at seven. Got it." He gave Gerald the thumbs-up, and Gerald nodded to him. Then he got up from his chair and, careful to avoid the other members of the group, he quietly slipped back to the side door he had entered from and, opening it, disappeared from sight. Eddie smoothed out his shirt, watching as the rest of the members got to their feet, and his gaze was instantly drawn back to Maria. He bit his lip as he watched her get up and start to leave. He clenched his fists, taking a deep breath and trying to get up his courage, then moved to her and put a hand on her shoulder, stopping her from leaving.

"Maria," he said. He paused, looking down, fiddling with his hands. "Um, good meeting, huh?" he said, totally nervous once again. He cursed himself for being a coward as he struggled to look her in the eye and make real conversation. He took a breath, willing himself to stop fidgeting, and looked up into her face. "Um, Maria," he said, trying hard not to stutter. "I was wondering if… a-and you can say no, if you want, it would be okay with me…" In all actuality, it would absolutely kill him if she said no, but he was not about to let her know his blatant insecurity.

He fooled with the edge of his shirt, then let it go, stuffing his hands into his pockets to keep from doing anything else neurotic and distracting. "And if you're busy, or you've got other plans, that's fine," he said, the urge to scuff his shoe against the floor hitting him strongly, but he ignored the urge. "But, um, I was wondering if…" He paused, biting his lip again and looking down at the ground, shrugging his shoulders. "I was wondering if, maybe…"

He hesitated, then looked up at her again. "Would you like to get dinner sometime?" he asked.

Maria instantly stood up the moment the meeting was over, turning to grab her coat and taking a step forward to catch Gerald before he left. She was stopped, however, by a hesitant hand on her shoulder, and she turned to find Eddie.

Every nerve screamed at her to go follow Gerald before he could get away. She watched out of the corner of her eye in despair as he disappeared out the side entrance, and finally gave her full attention to Eddie. No use being too torn up about it, she figured bitterly. It wasn't like he'd be able to tell her anything interesting; she'd discovered that much from their last little conversation. Gordon could just deal with the fact that she hadn't taken his advice.

And besides, there was still Hale to question.

Then she looked up, suddenly realizing what Eddie had asked. She paused, stared at him dumbly for a moment, then worked up an almost genuine smile. "Sure," she replied. It _wasn't_ pity, she told herself as she watched him twitch nervously. Who knew, maybe they'd become friends. _Just_...friends. "Any time."

Eddie stared at Maria for a long moment, and then his nervous half-smile began to spread until it stretched across his whole face, displaying all of his bleached teeth in a wide, ecstatic smile. "R-really?" he stuttered, his voice almost cracking in excitement. He cleared his throat, trying to contain himself. "I-I mean… wow." He chuckled nervously, smiling at her. "That's…" He put out his hands, lost for words. "That's… great," he said, beaming.

Eddie could not believe it. Maria had agreed to go out to dinner with him – _him,_ Eddie Nigma, the socially awkward, somewhat funny-looking, in his opinion, loser from the AA group she was not even really a part of. It did not surprise him that she would take to Gerald; _everyone_ loved Gerald. It was hard not to. What amazed him was that she would associate with the bottom-feeders of Gotham, such as himself, and that she seemed so… _non-judgmental_ about it all. Perhaps it was just a facade, but either way, she had agreed to go out for dinner with him, and he could barely contain himself with excitement.

"So, uh, I'll call you," Eddie said, making a phone gesture with one hand. "We'll see when it's convenient for us to, you know... meet up and stuff." He shrugged, trying to stop himself from blushing. He moved to the door before she could reach it and opened it, holding it open for her. "Ladies first," he said with a somewhat awkward chuckle, letting her go through first. He watched her as she passed through the door, admiring her hair, trying to decide what colour to call it, and then followed her outside, telling himself he would figure it out when he saw her next.

Eddie waved to Maria as he got to his car, a rusty old green car that had lost all indication of brand, and unlocked it, letting himself in and shutting the door behind him. He sat in his car for a long moment in silence before putting the key into the ignition, and then his face broke out into a wide grin. "Yes!" he shouted, punching the air lightly with a celebratory fist. Then he started up his car, pulled out of the lot, and began home.

Maria leaned against her car with a smile, waving as Eddie pulled out of the lot. It was nice to associate with people her age. Who weren't, well, crazy. And his good mood was catching; she found herself grinning as she pulled her keys out and jammed them into the lock of her car.

"Wait!" a voice called from behind her, and she turned to find Thomas Hale, jogging towards her car and panting a bit. He paused once he reached her, putting a hand on his chest and breathing heavily. "Thought I was going to miss you," he explained with an awkward smile. He took one last deep breath, then let it out in a sigh.

"I just wanted to know...have I met you somewhere?" he asked, getting straight to the point as usual. "Your face is pretty familiar."

Maria tilted her head slightly, pulling her keys slowly out of the car. "Actually, I think we have," she replied, leaning back against the car and crossing her arms. "Not directly, though. You were a photographer at the Wayne Gala a few weeks back, weren't you?"

And then it all came rushing back for Thomas. She was the girl he'd gotten a picture of, the one who Gordon said was that strange guy's wife or something. He peered at her curiously, thinking not of her but of the man. Dolohov, Gordon might have called him. Thomas' eyes grew wide, remembering the scars around his mouth and finally connecting him with those he'd seen just last night.

That guy...that Dolohov guy, who'd been this woman's date, was the _Joker_.

It all clicked into place: the Joker's painted smile, smeared onto the gala's doors that night, Gordon's purposeful evasion of the topic of the Dolohov couple at the gala...He looked up to find Maria watching him with a curious expression on her face. He realized that there had been a long moment of silence.

"Sorry, sorry, I got distracted," he quickly excused himself. Was she working for Gordon? Or was she really connected to the Joker? Either way, she was a veritable _mine_ of information. He could have rubbed his hands together in delight. Instead, he nodded. "Yes, I was there. We never fully introduced ourselves, I'm sorry; I'm Thomas Hale."

Maria interrupted him before he could go on. "I know, I've seen your picture in the papers." She grinned. "I like your articles."

"Oh, right..." Thomas said hesitantly, looking away. He could never be sure if people agreed with his point of view or not. He hoped he wasn't about to be given a verbal lashing.

"No, no, really," she assured him. "They're good. And truthful. I worked with the police for a while, to try to catch the Joker, and you're dead on."

He sighed in relief. So she _had_ been working for the police. That was good; he wasn't going to be murdered in his bed.

Or, rather, he wasn't any more _likely_ to be murdered in his bed. It was hard to forget that he lived in Gotham.

He pulled a pen and paper from his pocket. "Could you give me your phone number? I'd love to get an interview with you, see your position on this whole Joker business." She nodded and wrote down her number, then handed it back.

"It was good meeting you, Mr. Hale," she said with a smile, turning back to the car and opening the door. He shut the door courteously behind her.

"Oh, believe me," he muttered as she drove away, "the pleasure's all _mine_." With that, he sauntered away to his own car.

. . .

It was a little past seven when the lock of the apartment door clicked, the door opened again, and Warren White let himself into the apartment. Selina looked up, and, seeing Warren, she sat up with a heavy, relieved sigh. "Fucking _finally,_ Warren," she said, sounding peeved, as she reached for her bag, pulled out a cigarette, and lit up. She exhaled smoke, glaring at him. "Take a little _longer_ next time, won't you?"

"My apologies, Selina," White said, sounding completely not sorry. "I had... _business_ to attend to."

"It's always _business_ with you," Selina sighed. She put the cigarette in her mouth and bent over to Napier, taking his jaw in one hand and with the other, smacking him sharply across the face a few times. "Wake up," she instructed him curtly.

Napier squeezed his eyes shut, batting at her hand and turning his head to get her to let go of his face. "I'm _up,_ Jeanette," he mumbled. "I'm getting up..." He opened one eye to look up at what he assumed would be a familiar face, but, seeing Selina Kyle staring down at him, looking somewhat confused, he shot up into a sitting position, his hair sticking out at odd angles, shocked and bewildered. "What the -?!" he asked, looking at Selina, and then at White, who was looking oddly amused at the show.

White looked between Selina and Napier as he tossed his coat down. "Thought you said he wasn't passin' out, Selina?" he said, taking his cigar from between his teeth and looking quizzically at her.

"He wasn't," Selina replied, taking a drag of her cigarette. "Damn thing didn't work for two fucking hours. I was tempted to try again, only I didn't have any more to give him."

"Might've killed him if you'd tried again anyways," White said with a shrug, putting his cigar back between his teeth and moving into the room towards them.

Napier looked between Selina, who was smoking haughtily, ignoring him completely, and White, who was staring at him in intent interest, and finally decided on watching White. "What's goin' on here?" he asked, a slight frown creasing his face as he slid up into a sitting position on the couch. He fiddled with his shirt buttons, realizing, to some dismay, that a few of them were unbuttoned, and his tie was missing. He glanced quickly behind him to see if it was there, but then back at White. He would find it later.

White took a seat in an armchair facing the couch, and rested his elbows on his knees, staring at Napier. "So," he said, taking his cigar from his mouth and letting it smoke in his hand as his grey eyes searched Napier's face. "You're the great Joker."

Napier drew up to his full height. "That would be me," he said, slightly overconfident.

White nodded. "Hey, great Joker," he said. "Your fly's down."

Napier instantly blushed, looking down at his pants only to find that they were around his thighs. He slowly pulled them up and zipped them up, then buttoned them up. He cleared his throat, uncomfortable, and glanced over at Selina, then back at White. "And who are _you?_" he asked, frowning.

White's expression darkened slightly, but he tried to uphold the passive, amiable face he had put on for Napier. He paused a moment, then a bitter, false smile began to creep across his face. He put the cigar back in his mouth and puffed on it for a bit. Then he said, "Warren White." He took the cigar from his mouth, grinning at Napier. "You might know me better as Great White."

Napier paused, his dark eyes straying as he tried to place the name. Then he looked back at White and shook his head. "Can't say I do," he answered simply.

White nodded, frowning slightly. "Let me ask you this," he said, indicating towards Napier with his cigar, "were you ever a man of money?"

Napier shook his head again. "No," he answered candidly.

White grinned, putting his cigar back in his mouth. "That'd be why you've never heard of me," he said, reclining back in his chair.

"Wait," said Napier, holding up a hand. "If you only deal with..." He paused, putting a hand to his chest. "Where's my vest...?" he wondered aloud, looking around him. He glanced over at Selina, who slowly raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him. She knew exactly where his vest had gone, but she was not about to help him out. He stared at her for a long moment, slightly intimidated by her scathing expression, then turned back to White. "I'm sorry, what was I saying?" he asked. "Right. If you only deal with rich people, then why...?"

"Why would I be interested in you?" White cut over him, guessing the end of his question. He grinned at Napier, letting his cigar smoulder in his hand. "Because some of the so-called 'rich people' I deal with only became that way once they were done doing business with me." He put the cigar back into his mouth, still grinning slyly at Napier. "I can make or break you, son," he said. "Which will it be?"

Napier raised his eyebrows, surprised. "You want me to work for you?" he asked.

"You got it," said White.

Napier looked away, thinking about it. Then his gaze returned to White. "How much are we talking?" he asked.

"My kind of man," White laughed, looking over at Selina. He looked back at Napier, his eyes all but aglow. "How much do _you_ think is reasonable?" he asked.

Napier paused, considering his question. He did not want to ask for too much, but, at the same time, this was his opportunity to get a good deal of money. His dark eyes returned to White's face, narrowed slightly. "Five hundred thousand," he said slowly.

White nodded slowly, considering the amount. "How does... _one million_ sound?" he asked, slitting his eyes at Napier with a sly grin.

Napier's eyebrows instantly shot up in surprise. "One million?" he asked, too obviously bewildered by the amount. He glanced over at Selina, who looked completely disinterested in the conversation, and then back at White. Then his enthusiastic expression faded. "What exactly _is_ this job?" he asked, suspicious.

White put his cigar back into his mouth and puffed at it thoughtfully for a long moment. Then he turned to Selina. "Selina," he said, getting her attention, "be a doll and get me some port. Some of the good stuff... you know, old date."

Napier frowned, looking quickly over at Selina, who was getting up from the couch and walking away, towards wherever White kept his port, and then back to White. "Oh, no," he said quickly, almost in a panic. "I don't want any, really." He glanced back, watching as Selina came back into the room, carrying in a crystal bottle of wine and two crystal glasses. He turned back to White again. "I really don't want any, thank you," he said, his tone perhaps a bit too forceful.

White frowned up at him in slight confusion. "I wasn't offering you any," he said, pouring himself a small glass of port and reclining back in his chair. He let his cigar smoulder in his free hand as he sipped thoughtfully at his glass of wine. "It's against my policy to offer liquor to people who... might have a problem with it." He shrugged. "I care about my clients," he said with a slick smile, taking another sip of port.

Napier watched him, still slightly suspicious, and frowned. "_Might have a problem with it?_" he asked, getting defensive. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothing, really," said White, leaning forward, sounding as if he were trying to cover his blunder. "Just that I assumed you might have, you know... a _slight inclination_ towards..." He shrugged. "Because, you know... last night."

"Last night was a fluke," Napier said, offended. "I don't have a problem."

"Oh," said White, sounding relieved. "Well, then, would you like a glass?"

"Yeah," said Napier. "Go ahead and pour me a glass." He watched as White poured the other crystal glass full of port, then picked it up and tasted it. "This is good," he said, indicating towards White with a slight smile.

"Glad you approve," White said, reclining back in his chair again, sounding thoroughly pleased with himself.

. . .

Jeanette's new location was, conveniently, much closer to the Iceberg Lounge than the other apartment, so she got there quickly. She prayed that Jeannie Rose was still inside as she unlocked the door (that was a good sign, at least) and called, "Anybody home?"

Jeannie Rose opened her eyes and yawned. It had been a long day, between that morning, when she had first seen her Daddy, to when she had realized he was her father, to his denial of her… She rubbed her eyes, pushing the thought from her mind. Miss Jeanette had said that he was just confused… she got confused, sometimes. It happened, she told herself. Maybe he just did not remember that he had a little girl. It would come to him, in time. Then he would come back to her, and be the Daddy she never had.

She frowned slightly, looking down at the huge purple coat she wore. She only hoped that when he came back, prepared to be her Daddy, he would not be quite as irritable – or violent – as he had proven himself to be that morning. She looked up suddenly when she heard Jeanette's voice, and her face lit up.

"Miss Jeanette!" she exclaimed, sliding off the bed and running into the front room, almost tripping over the end of her long coat. She threw her arms around Jeanette's leg, snuggling up to her. "I'm glad you're back," she said, looking up at Jeanette. "I've been asleep. I missed you lots, though." He beamed up at her. "Is Daddy back yet?" she asked, letting go of Jeanette and peering around her. "Mommie?" She looked back up at Jeanette, her expression fallen a little. "No?" she asked.

Jeannie Rose sighed, taking a step back, and offered up a reassuring smile to Jeanette. "Oh, well," she said, holding out her arms and spinning in an idle circle. "They'll come back soon." She paused, then looked back over at Jeanette. "Right, Miss Jeanette?" she asked. "My Mommie and Daddy will be back soon. _Right?_" She dropped her arms. "Then we'll be a family. A _real_ family."

She looked away, wistful. "I've never had a real family before," she said. "All I ever had was my Mommie." She looked back at Jeanette. "Have you ever had a real family, Miss Jeanette?" she asked. "With a Mommie an' a Daddy, an' you do all kinds of fun stuff together?" She took Jeanette's hand, tugging on it slightly. "I bet you had a real good family," she said. "'Cause you're so nice to me."

She stopped tugging on Jeanette's hand, just looking up at her. "Did you ever have any babies, Miss Jeanette?" she asked.

"Curious little thing, aren't you?" Jeanette said shortly in reply, dropping her coat and purse on the kitchen counter and going into the living room for a seat. She took the little girl with her by the hand, then tugged her onto her lap. She was getting more used to this "mother"-ey thing; memories of babysitting her cousins were starting to come back.

She first frowned down at the coat Jeannie Rose was wearing. "Take that dirty thing off, sweetie," she insisted, gently tugging at its sleeves, "it has germs all over it, and we don't know where it's _been_." She had a pretty fair idea, actually, she realized when she smelled the faintest hint of blood on the outfit. She wrinkled her nose.

Charming.

"Yes, they'll be back soon," she began, answering the questions in the order Jeannie Rose had asked them and ticking them off on her fingers. "I _did_ have a real family before - sort of - and no, I've never had any babies." She smiled at that. "Why on earth do you ask?"

Jeannie Rose shrugged, letting Jeanette take the large purple coat off, and glanced back as the coat was set aside. She had liked the coat, but if Miss Jeanette said it was dirty and full of germs, then she was not going to argue. After all, Miss Jeanette knew better than she did where the coat had been. Jeannie Rose had just found it and had assumed, because its large size, that it belonged to her Daddy. Maybe Miss Jeanette would let her wear it again once it was clean.

"I dunno," she said, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. She looked down at her little pink shoes, fooling with one of her socks. "I was just wondering." Jeannie Rose fiddled with her socks for a moment, distracted. "You're just real good to me. I thought maybe you had some babies, too." Her eyes lifted back up to Jeanette's face. "But you had a family. That's good." She looked back down, fiddling with her hands in her lap. "I think you would be a good mommie, Miss Jeanette," she said plainly.

She looked back up at Jeanette. "Have you ever wanted to be a mommie, Miss Jeanette?" she asked. She paused a moment, thinking. "You would need to have someone to be the Daddy, if you were to have a baby, though," she said, looking away, apparently thinking it through quite thoroughly. Then she turned back to Jeanette. "Do you like my Daddy, Miss Jeanette?" she asked candidly.

Jeannie Rose looked back down into her lap, fooling with the edge of her dress. "He just seems like he doesn't have a lot of friends," she said with a light sigh. "He seems real sad." She looked up at Jeanette again. "Why is he sad?" she asked.

Jeanette watched the girl fiddle with her hands and the edge of her dress with a faint smile. She was starting to see more similarities between Jeannie Rose and her mother, and it was comforting, if not more than a bit strange.

"Well, thank you," she said, a bit surprised at the girl's comment. She wasn't going out of her way to be nice. Maybe her pity and sympathy for Jeannie Rose was clouding her perspective. "I'd love to be one. Some day." She sighed. "Not now; I've got...business, now."

Business. That's all it was, wasn't it? She'd left Italy to get away from "business", she'd eventually come to America to get away from "business"...and now she was stuck in it again. She wondered what the hell she'd do with herself if she ever just settled down. She just wasn't made for a domestic life. She looked down, realized that she'd begun toying with one of Jeannie Rose's curls, and hurriedly withdrew her hand.

Then she sighed. This again. "I don't know," she replied, as honestly as Jeannie Rose had been. "It's complicated. He's made some mistakes, and hasn't had the best life." She considered the girl. Something told her that Jeannie Rose hadn't been shown many hardships; at least, not of the variety that Jack had faced. "He's been through a lot. He didn't know you or your mommy were alive until today, did you know that?" She looked away. "He thought you were dead, and I'm sure that was awful for him."

She forced a smile and flapped her hand. "But you shouldn't worry yourself with all that," she told Jeannie Rose, tapping the tip of her nose with a finger. "I won't be able to do anything about finding your mommy and daddy for a little while, so did you want to go do something?" What sort of things could you do with a little kid in Gotham?

. . .

Wayne pulled on his glove and tightened it, making sure it stayed firmly on his hand. Then he sighed, glancing back at his bat cowl. It was the finishing touch of his outfit. He picked it up, considering it, and looked up at his blank computer monitors. He had not had any reason to use them in the last few days, as Fox had not been around to operate them. So they had sat in his so-called Batcave, useless, dark and glaring at him as if their inactivity was his fault.

And, in a way, he realized, it was.

Wayne stared at his reflection in the dark screens, frowning slightly at his face. He had applied his usual black makeup around his eyes, and it made him look like a forlorn raccoon. He looked back at the bat cowl in his hands, and, with a deep exhale, he slipped it over his head. Then he turned back to the blank monitors and stared at his reflection again.

Batman was the only thing holding Gotham together, he realized. It was a pity that it was the same thing that was making Bruce Wayne fall apart.

"Are you all done up, Master Wayne?" Alfred asked, stepping into the wan light. Wayne glanced over at him, then back at his reflection, then back at Alfred again.

"As ready as I'll ever be," he said firmly.

"And who are you intending to catch tonight, Sir?" Alfred asked, trying for small talk.

Wayne picked up the keys to the Tumbler from the computer-desk and looked up at Alfred, shaking his head. "I don't know," he admitted. He closed his hand firmly around the keys and started walking past his faithful butler. "But I'm going to get a criminal, mark my words."

"I never doubted you would," Alfred told him, nodding in consent.


	43. Chapter FortyTwo

Napier finished off his latest glass of port and held the glass out in front of him, admiring what he could make out of the fine crystal with a satisfied sigh. Then he turned to Selina, who still sat beside him on the couch. "Youwanna… youwanna know sunthin'?" he asked, his tongue thick, leaning forward towards her, his hair falling in his eyes. He grinned, snickering, and slurred, "I'm actually tryin' t' quit drinking. I'm… I hav'uh problem with my… my drinking."

Selina nodded, not really listening. "Is that so?" she asked, trying to hold back a bored, disgusted sigh. "I never would have guessed. Have you ever sought help for your problem?"

"Pfft," Napier said. "I don't hav'uh problem." He paused a moment, wavering, then turned back to her with a grin. "I've been handling myself just fine, thanks. I don't need any help." He stared thoughtfully at the empty crystal glass. "I can quit any time I want," he drawled.

"Here, you want a cigar?" White said, offering a premium Cuban cigar and his Zippo over to Napier. Napier put his empty glass down on the coffee-table between them and took the cigar and the lighter. He put the cigar awkwardly into his mouth and opened the Zippo, lighting the end of the cigar. He handed the Zippo back to White, paused, and then took a deep breath of the cigar. Then he pulled it from his mouth, hacking and wheezing, his hand on his chest.

"Oh," said White carelessly, tucking his Zippo back into his vest pocket. "Don't inhale."

Napier looked up at him with watering, red eyes and coughed again. "Thanks fer th' warning," he mumbled. He stared down at the cigar in his hand, considered putting it back in his mouth, then shook his head and stubbed out the end of it with his fingertips. He laid the put-out cigar on the coffee table next to his empty wine glass. "So you wanted t' offer me a job," Napier said, leaning forward towards White, his hair falling into his eyes. He pushed it aside, still staring at White intently. "What was it?"

White crossed one leg over the other, thoughtful, staring intently at Napier. "They say you're a killer," he said. "A merciless, bloodthirsty murderer."

"That would be me," Napier said, nodding with a boozy grin, and sat up to his full height. "Th' great Joker."

"Right, right," said White, waving him off. "Anyways, I have a proposition for you." He leaned forward, letting his cigar smoulder in his hand as he grinned at Napier. "I want you to kill some people for me."

Napier frowned slightly, slouching again. "I ain't a merc'nary," he said harshly. "I ain't a paid killer. I kill 'cause I wanna. Not 'cause somebody told me to."

"Right, sure," White said, disregarding him. "But keep in mind that I'm willing to pay you one million dollars to do this job for me."

Napier paused, considering. Then he looked back up at White. "How many people you want killed?" he asked.

"Just a couple," White said, shrugging. "Nobody major. Just a few associates of the Penguin's."

"Th'..." Napier looked away, trying to place where he had heard the name before. Then he looked back at White, pointing at him, wavering slightly. "Cobblepot," he said, his speech thick. He paused again, thinking, then looked up at White with a puzzled expression. "Why?" he asked.

"Details are unimportant," White said quickly, leaning back in his chair and putting his cigar back between his teeth.

"No, no, details are ver... very imporn'nt," said Napier, frowning, wetting his lips. "Why d'you wanna kill 'em?"

White stared at Napier for a long moment, then looked over at Selina. She shrugged, looking lost. White frowned, then turned back to Napier. "Well," he said, choosing his words carefully, "let's just say we've never been the _best of friends._"

Napier nodded, his eyes half-closing. "'Kay," he said, "that's good enough."

"But there's a catch," said White, glad to be over that snag. He took his cigar from his mouth and indicated towards Napier with it. "I want you to kill 'em in such a way that it looks like someone else done it."

"You want me t'... _frame _somebody?" Napier asked, taken aback.

"That's the idea," said White, nodding. "You kill 'em, we make it up to look like somebody else done it, I pay you, we never have to see each other again."

Napier frowned, considering the shady offer. "Who're you tryin' t' frame?" he asked.

White leaned back in his chair again. "Now, that's _classified,_ son," he said, putting his cigar back in his mouth.

Napier nodded, considering everything he had been told. Then he leaned forward on the couch, staring up at White. "I don' think I'm int'rested," he said plainly.

White frowned. "Well, how 'bout if I offer you one mil for each person you kill?" he asked, taking his cigar from his mouth, seemingly slightly distressed. "Would that change your mind?"

Napier hesitated, then shook his head. "That's not th' probl'm," he told White. "The probl'm is, I like to get credit for my own work." He shrugged. "Call me narci... nessicist..." He paused. "Call me vain," he finally said, "but I like to get credit where credit's due." He wet his lips, blinking slowly. "If you can see where I'm coming from."

White nodded, his eyebrows locked. "Oh, I see where you're coming from," he said darkly.

"Good," said Napier with a lopsided grin. "'Cause I don't think I could repeat that."

"I can also see where you're _going,_" said White, getting up from his chair. He turned to Selina. "Call in the muscle. Get 'em to throw this bum back on the street, where he belongs." He turned back to Napier, his face darkened with rage. "You shoulda said yes," he said. "Then we coulda gotten on like pals."

Selina pulled out her phone and speed-dialled. "We need somebody thrown out," she said into the receiver, sounding bored. Then she hung up.

Napier looked between the two of them, frowning at their sudden change to hostility. "What-?" he started to say, but a couple of burly men burst into the room and grabbed him by the arms, dragging him away. He looked between them, frantic, and then back up at Selina and White. "Wait!" he called. "What happened to... you said you..."

"What?" White demanded, getting up in his face.

Napier shook his head. "Not you," he said. He wet his lips, looking over at Selina, who was walking up behind White, holding Napier's vest and tie. "I thought you said..." he tried to struggle with the two big guys, but they were overpowering him. "I thought you said you were gonna..."

"Take advantage of you?" Selina asked, monotone. She scoffed at him in disgust, then tossed his clothes at him. "Congratulations," she said. "You've just been taken advantage of."

And with that, White slammed the door shut in Napier's face.

. . .

Jeanette was surprised when she realized that she'd actually had a good time with Jeannie Rose. She had taken the girl out to ice cream at a local parlor, and then they'd gone for a long walk until it was getting dark outside. At that point, Jeanette figured that it wasn't particularly safe outside, so she headed back to her apartment. As she pushed her keys into the door's lock, she said jokingly, "I _told_ you that pigeon would eat your cone if you held it out like that." She turned the handle and swung the door open. "I mean, honestly..."

She looked up and froze in the doorway.

Benito Rossini, her father, stood near the counter, inspecting a painting of a sailboat on the wall. He was dressed in one of his usual expensive suits, graying hair combed straight back. He didn't look at her as he said, "Tacky. And not your style at all." He finally turned to her with a smirk. "Please tell me your taste hasn't deteriorated this much."

"It was here when I moved in." Her voice was strained and colder than ice. She tried to keep Jeannie Rose behind her and out of sight; she didn't want to know what her father would think of the girl. "What are you doing here?" she asked, beginning to backtrack slowly out the door.

She didn't make it very far. Two thugs had somehow sneaked down the hallway and stood behind her. One grabbed her arms and shoved her roughly into the apartment. The other picked up Jeannie Rose and followed. There was a short scuffle; Jeanette kicked, scratched, even bit at the man holding her. He finally reached into his pocket and pulled out a silenced hand gun, placing the cool metal to the side of her head.

She stopped struggling immediately, and her father ambled casually over, inspecting his nails. "I can't say I expect _hospitality_, dear, but some cooperation and civility would be more than welcome." He paused, looked her over. "I came to check up on you, darling. I was in the neighborhood, and I wanted to make sure you weren't in any trouble." He glanced at Jeannie Rose, nose lifted. "And I'm glad I did. _This_," he inclined his head ever so slightly towards the girl as if she were a _thing_, "would certainly explain where all my money has been going over the past few years."

"She's not mine," Jeanette protested, trying to look at the gun clamped to the side of her head as she spoke. "Since when has Gotham City been 'in the neighborhood'? Is mother taking care of business back in Italy?"

"You don't even call it 'home' any more," he noted in an almost wistful tone, picking at the invisible dirt at the bottom of his jacket. Then he paused, a bitter smile spreading slowly over his face. "Sharp as always, I see."

She said nothing.

"Fine, you're right." He smoothed his suit and took a seat, indicating her to sit next to him with a sweep of his hand. The bodyguard behind her released her arms, and she perched herself on the edge of the couch suspiciously, keeping one careful eye on Jeannie Rose. Her father followed her gaze, and tutted as if dealing with a disobedient child. "Very well," he said, and nodded at the second bodyguard to put the girl down. Jeanette snatched her up immediately and wrapped her arms carefully around her.

Her father continued. "The family business has been going downhill since you left, Jeanette." He paused and smiled sarcastically. "Not _because_ you left. Don't flatter yourself." Jeanette raised her eyebrows and held out her hands - had she _said_ that? He ignored her. "Our connections in America have been dwindling. We sent some of your cousins here a few years ago to give ourselves some working space."

"So things have gotten so bad that you've come to settle affairs yourself." Jeanette couldn't help but be impressed. Her cousins must have screwed things up pretty badly if the big Don himself had to come over.

He nodded. "I can't say it's _all_ their fault. These crooks in Gotham..." He flapped his hand irritably. "They do not follow the typical moral code. They need to be disposed of before the Rossinis can take power again." He paused, smiled craftily, and said, "That's where you come in."

Jeanette frowned and shifted Jeannie Rose in her arms. So he wanted her to take out the new-blood criminals in the city, that was all. But she couldn't help but wonder _why_ he'd settled on her. She had shamed the family in a _very_ public way with the Mark incident. Why would he come crawling to her?

He seemed to read her mind. "You're, quite frankly, the only one for this job," he explained, crossing his legs elegantly. "We need to dispose of Warren White first." He caught the spark of distasteful recognition in her eye. "You know him. Good," he said. "We need to get someone _close_ to him. Someone on the _inside_."

Something about his tone made Jeanette instantly realize what he meant. "No."

"It is the only way to handle the situation. He knows the other big names in this city. He has information. We can't just kill him."

"_No._"

"And, of course," he added, ignoring her protests, "a woman like you would be the perfect candidate..."

The man behind her cocked his gun as she started to get up. He forced her back down. Her father was inspecting his nails again, his tone still frustratingly untroubled. "Consider it your reimbursement for all of _my money_ you've used up. It's not a request, Jeanette. It's a demand."

"And if I refuse?"

He smiled as he stood and headed for the door. "Well, you know how our family takes care of our _problems_, don't you?" he said mildly. His two bodyguards followed him. He paused at the threshold. "You _have_ changed, haven't you? And it must be because of that fellow. The tall, tan one." Jeanette immediately tensed up, leveling a glare at him. He smiled again. "We've been following you, Jeanette, for the last few weeks. It's how I find you here." He paused, looked over her apartment again. "If you decide not to listen to me," he told her, "I'll kill your...ah...'friend'. _And_ the girl."

With that, he left.

Jeannie Rose clung to Jeanette's arms, holding them tightly around her little form, and watched in terror as Jeanette spoke with the large, intimidating man while his thugs stood by. She could not remember ever having been this scared before in her life, but she was not about to say anything; Miss Jeanette needed her to be strong. Even the big man's threats to kill both her, Jeannie Rose, and the so-called 'tall, tan man', whom Jeannie Rose assumed was her daddy, did not make her open her mouth. She watched as he and his goons made their exit, and stared after them for a long, silent moment, holding Jeanette's arms tightly around herself. Then she looked up at her.

"Your daddy is a very bad man," she said quietly. She put her head on Jeanette's shoulder, frowning. "He shouldn't talk about killing people. And he shouldn't boss you around like that." She looked back up at Jeanette. "He's a big, mean bully," she said, indignant. Then her expression softened to one of fear. "And he's scary," she said, her tone quieter. Jeannie Rose paused for a long moment, then took Jeanette's arm, wrapping her two smaller ones around it.

"I won't let him hurt you, Miss Jeanette," she said, shaking her head. "If he wants to hurt you, he's gonna have to deal with _me._"

Jeannie Rose stared at Jeanette for a moment, then, unable to help herself, she yawned widely. She rubbed her eyes with her little fists, sighing. "I'm sleepy, Miss Jeanette," she said, looking back up at Jeanette. "But I don't wanna go to sleep an' leave you all alone. What if he comes back?" She glanced over towards the door again, her eyes starting to close slightly. "I'm gonna stay up with you, Miss Jeanette," she said determinedly, looking back at Jeanette with heavy, dark eyes. "I'm gonna… protect you from any bad men who wanna…"

She yawned again, barely able to keep her eyes open. "I'll beat him up," she said, sleepy.

"No, he shouldn't." Jeanette was still shell-shocked; her father was here. _Here_. In Gotham. And he knew where she lived, and who she associated with, and what she'd been doing for the last few weeks...

She shuddered, and stood up with the girl in her arms. She was almost asleep; no need to keep the poor thing up thinking about things like this. "I'm sorry," Jeanette told her, carrying her to the bedroom and setting her down on the bed. She leaned over to get on eye level with Jeannie Rose, and took a deep breath. "I'm so sorry. I never meant for anything like this to happen," she explained, looking down at the blankets. Then she met Jeannie Rose's eye very seriously. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you, okay?"

With that, she stood up and went to the door. "Get some sleep, sweetie, we've got a lot to do tomorrow." She smiled, turned out the light, and went back to the living room, leaving the door cracked a bit to give the girl some light.

She tucked her legs underneath her and leaned back against the couch, eyes filling up. She pressed her hands to them. This was bad. She'd set up so many precautions, and her father had come and simply swept them all aside, as usual. And now she was trapped. She had to go after White, or he'd...She put her head in her hands.

She was screwed. Totally and utterly screwed. But there was no use complaining about it; she'd gotten herself into this mess, so it was completely up to her to get herself out of it. Tomorrow, she'd just have to forget about Crane and start her new job. She shuddered again. She would _not_ enjoy this.

. . .

Napier hung back in the darkness of a side alley, watching as a ragtag group of people left the little, out-of-the-way building, going out to their cars, socializing a bit with one another before getting into their respective vehicles and driving away. He waited until the last of the stragglers had gotten into their cars and driven off before he emerged. He paused, trying to catch some semblance of balance, and looked around, making sure no one was watching him. Then he started towards the building and, when he reached it, he pushed the door open and let himself inside.

Gerald was just coming back in from the side door when he looked up and saw Napier. There was a long moment of silence in which the two men just stood, staring at one another. "Jack?" Gerald asked, sounding as if he could not believe his eyes.

Napier wet his lips and swallowed, nodding. "You remember me," he said.

Gerald moved forward, sitting down in his usual chair, still staring at Napier in bewildered surprise. "How could I forget?" he asked.

Napier shrugged, moving into the room and leaning heavily on one of the chairs, trying to retain his balance. "You've got lots of other people with more successful stories than mine," he said, lowering himself into the chair. "I would think you would've forgotten about a failure like me."

Gerald frowned at Napier. "You're drunk," he said, sounding reproachful.

Napier raised his eyebrows at the older man. "You seem surprised," he replied.

"I can't say I'm surprised," Gerald said, "but I am disappointed."

Napier looked away, folding his hands between his thighs as he slouched in his chair, ashamed. He had let Gerald down, and it had not occurred to him until just now how much that hurt. Gerald was one of the only people who had ever shown him kindness, and it was a blow to hear how he had failed the older man. "I didn't _mean_ to," he mumbled, as if it made a difference whether he meant to or not. In matters like this, it was not the thought that counted.

"I know," Gerald said quietly, nodding and putting a hand on Napier's shoulder. Then he leaned back in his chair, taking back his hand, folding his hands together in his lap. "What are you doing here anyways, Jack?" he asked. "I would imagine you would have better things to do than to visit an old man that Gotham forgot."

"What kinds of things would you be expecting me to _do,_ Gerald?" Napier asked bitterly. "Knocking over little mom-and-pop stores to feed my crack habit?"

Gerald frowned, shaking his head. "As I remember, the drug you eventually fell prey to was _heroin,_ not crack," he said. Napier looked away in shame again. "And besides, that's not the kind of thing you would do." He stared at Napier for a long moment. "I know you better than that," he said. "You're a good man, Jack."

Napier shook his head. "No," he said. "I'm not a good man. I'm a horrible person." He looked up at Gerald then, his brow furrowed. "If you knew half of what I've done since I last saw you..."

"I know everything you've done, Jack," Gerald told him, staring at him. "You murder people, destroy property, and call yourself the Joker..."

"If you know about all that, how can you sit there and tell me I'm a good person?" Napier asked, confused.

Gerald put a hand on Napier's knee, fatherly, and smiled genially at him. "Because I know you. I knew you before all of this nonsense."

"That was different," Napier said, shaking his head. "I had Kitty back then. When they told me Kitty was dead, I..." He shook his head. "I snapped."

Gerald nodded, sad. "I know," he said quietly.

"But they lied," Napier said, with renewed vigour. "Kitty was alive."

Gerald nodded again. "I know," he repeated.

Napier paused, staring at Gerald. "You... know?" he asked. "How..." He looked away, trying to puzzle it out. "How could you have known... when I..."

"I was a volunteer in the maternity ward," Gerald explained. "I was there when they brought Kitty in. I was there when your daughter was born."

"You knew I had a...?" Napier started, dazed, but his voice trailed off, and he looked away. Then he looked back at Gerald. "If she was alive, then why didn't she come looking for me?" Napier demanded. "Why didn't she try to find me? Why didn't she get me out of Arkham once she found out I was being kept there?"

"The people at Gotham General deemed you too much a threat for her to return to you," Gerald replied simply.

Napier frowned. "What?" he asked. "I'm not a threat!" He got up from his seat and indicated himself, angrily. "Do I look like a threat to you?!" he demanded.

"They assessed on what information they could gather on you, Jack," Gerald explained calmly, hoping his reassuring nature would get Napier to settle back down. "You were a big man, she was a little woman, you had a history of... substance abuse..."

"I was a _drunk,_ you mean," Napier said plainly, sitting back down.

"Among... other things," Gerald said, still sounding awkward. He paused, taking a breath, considering his words. "You were a dangerous man, Jack," Gerald told him. "It would have been dangerous for her to return to you." He looked away, frowning deeply. "Besides..." he said, his voice quiet. He looked back at Napier, his eyes sad, and shook his head. "She didn't remember you when she got out of the hospital."

Napier stared at him in disbelief. "What?" he asked. "Wha... why? Why wouldn't she remember me? I... I'm her husband, for God's sakes!"

"It wasn't her _choice,_ Jack," Gerald told him, holding up a hand. "The people at Gotham General... they thought it would be best if she didn't go back to you. She wanted to, but... they convinced her otherwise."

"But she'd still remember me," Napier said, grasping for any kind of possibility. "She'd still know me, still... want to come back to me..."

"She _wanted_ to go back to you, Jack," Gerald said. "But they used this thing... it hadn't been approved by the government, and only one person in Gotham knew anything about it... he wasn't even a professional. But they thought it was the only way to keep her from going back to you." He looked up at Napier and let out a heavy sigh. "They wanted to make absolute sure she would not put herself or her daughter in danger," he said sadly. "So they made her forget you completely."

"What did they do?" Napier asked, clearly getting angry. "What method did they use, Gerald? To make her forget me."

"Hypno-therapy, among other things," Gerald replied. "Every day, for several hours, they had an employee of WayneTech..."

"Who?" Napier cut over him. "What was his name?"

Gerald thought for a moment, then looked back at Napier. "_Tetch,_ I believe it was," he said. "Jervis Tetch. A strange little man if ever I saw one, but... a brilliant mind." He shook his head. "Well, it worked, believe it or not. After a while, Kitty forgot about you. And finally, Kitty forgot about everything." He paused. "She didn't put up much of a fight," he said, frowning slightly in mild confusion. "She was very... pacifistic about it all."

Napier shook his head. "Kitty was never much of a fighter," he said, quiet. Then he looked back up at Gerald. "And where is Kitty now?" he asked.

Gerald stared at him, hesitating for a long time, as if considering whether or not to tell him. Then he spoke up. "Your wife is _dead,_ Jack," Gerald said, sounding somewhat stilted.

Napier stared at him for a long moment, his brow furrowed slightly. Then he shook his head. "No," he said. "No, Kitty's _alive._ She… I _know_ she's alive, because…"

"Somebody told you so?" Gerald asked. He stared intently at Napier. "Jack, you can't trust people in this world. They'll all lie to you."

"Then how do I know _you're_ telling the truth?" Napier shot back. "For all I know, you could be a liar, just like the rest of them."

"Jack, you know me," said Gerald, putting a hand to his heart. "I'm your friend. Would I lie to you?" Napier stared at him for a long moment, then hung his head, silent. Gerald dropped his hand, watching Napier intently. "I was working at Gotham General as a volunteer when the two of you were brought in. I know what happened to her afterwards. She was let out, but she died soon after... I don't know how, but I know she died."

"Then why was there never a funeral?" Napier asked, looking up. "Why was I never invited to my wife's funeral?"

"There _was_ a funeral, Jack," Gerald said gently. "You were in the asylum when it happened." He paused. "I worked at Arkham as a volunteer while you were there."

"You just seem to be in all the right places at all the right times, don't you, Gerald?" Napier hissed, frowning at him.

Gerald frowned. "I transferred over to Arkham because you were sent there, Jack," he told Napier. Napier looked away again. "I remembered you from the AA group. I remembered that you used to be a shy, happy man who loved his wife very much. And then I watched you turn into this bitter recluse, almost overnight." He shook his head sadly, watching Napier. "You never talked to anyone at Arkham," he said.

"There was no one worth talking to," Napier hissed, not looking at Gerald.

"Do you remember the night you were brought in?" Gerald asked. Napier paused, then shook his head. Gerald sighed, looking away. "I do," he said, quietly. He looked back up at Napier. "I remember it as if it were yesterday, because I remember that I had never seen anything so… _distressing,_ in my entire life." Napier looked up at him at this. "You could barely stand," Gerald told him. "There were two guards almost carrying you. And you were laughing… laughing like a madman."

"So I've been told," Napier said quietly. "Laughing all the way to Arkham."

"Not just laughing," said Gerald. "You were absolutely giddy with bloodlust. I remember it so clearly… 'My wife is dead, ha, ha… my unborn child is dead, ha, ha… my father killed my mother, ha, ha, ha… he was a drunk, just like me... do you know what happened? He slit her open from head to toe!'" Napier cringed at this, looking away again, but Gerald did not stop. "'And _now_ look at me! Look at me, ha, ha, ha… They're coming to take me away!'" He looked up at Napier, staring at him intently. "Your face has healed a bit, at least," he said. "It was bleeding like crazy when you came in."

"I didn't want stitches," Napier said, his voice shaking slightly. "And they wouldn't give me painkillers."

"They were afraid it would kill you if they did," Gerald explained. "You already had a BAL of over .30. And you'd obviously been doing drugs. Anything more in your system might have caused it to shut down."

"I wish it had," Napier said quietly. "It would have done everyone a favour. Especially me."

Gerald frowned at him. "Don't _say_ that, Jack," he said. "No life is worth ending. No matter how terrible."

Napier looked up at him, glaring at him. "What would you know about a terrible life, Gerald?" he asked sharply. "All you've ever done is good for other people, and everyone loves you. You're like the father everyone never had, but always wanted." He put his head in his hands. "I'm the father no one ever wanted, but now they're stuck with," he said quietly.

Gerald frowned slightly at him. "What?" he asked. "Your child is still alive?"

Napier looked up at him, tears in his eyes, trying to hold them back but not very well able to. "Yes," he said. He tried to stop the tears before they came, rubbing his eye with the palm of his hand. "My daughter... Jeannie Rose." He sniffed, looking back up at Gerald. "She... deserves a better father than me," he said.

"How can you say that?" Gerald asked. "You stepped forward to be her father, didn't you?"

Napier looked mournfully up at him and shook his head. "I told her I didn't want her," he said. He looked away, ashamed. "She was supposed to be a little boy," he said, his voice choking up. He put his face in his hands as a pair of tears skated down his face. "Kitty promised me we were going to have a little boy..." He shook his head, still hiding his face from Gerald. "I didn't know what to do... I still don't know what to do... I just..." He sobbed, unable to hold it back any longer.

"I'm just so confused, Gerald," he told the older man. "I'm not prepared to be a father, not all on my own... I can't take care of a little girl... look at me!" He looked up at Gerald, his face streaked with tears. Then he put his face back in his hands. "I can barely take care of _myself,_" he said quietly, his shoulders shaking.

Gerald stared at him, watching him with compassion. Then he reached a hand forward and placed it on Napier's back. "Sometimes," he said quietly, "our children... don't turn out to be what we hoped they would be." He paused, considering his words. "But we have to accept them and love them for who they are, no matter how different they are than you hoped they would be." He looked away, an odd expression on his fatherly face. "I know it's hard to do," he said, "but... it's the only way."

Napier looked up at him, still trying to catch his breath, his face wet with tears, and swallowed. "Gerald," he said, his voice shaking. "Did you ever... find your son?"

Gerald stared at him for a long moment, considering the question. Then he shook his head. "No," he said. "I never did find my son."

Napier sniffed, nodding, and looked away again. "Well, I..." he started to say, then shook his head. "I should go," he said quietly. He looked back up at Gerald. "Thank you, Gerald," he said, nodding to him. He wiped at the tears on his face with the sleeve of his shirt, then got up from his chair and started to walk away. Then he turned back to Gerald. "Can I... come see you some other time?" he asked. "I just... really need someone to talk to, sometimes."

Gerald smiled at him, sad and fatherly. "Sure," he said quietly. "I'll be here whenever you need me, Jack."

Napier smiled and nodded to him. "Thanks, Gerald," he said. Then he left.

Gerald sighed, staring after Napier for a long moment, then looked down at his hands, folded in his lap. He heard a familiar presence coming up behind him, and his brow furrowed slightly. "I told him what you told me to tell him," he said, sounding suddenly unhappy. "I hope this makes you happy, because it kills me."

Crane nodded, taking a deep, satisfied breath. "So," he said coldly, "how did he take it?"

Gerald hesitated, then looked at the ground, giving up. "Like a champ," he said sadly.

"What, that was supposed to be the big, bad Joker?" Flicker's voice was whiny, and for good reason. They'd been walking around all _day_. She was tired. And now she knew that they'd come to this stupid building so that Crane could find his daddy and make someone miserable?

Well, whatever got him his kicks.

She flicked the lighter in her hand open, watched the flame for a moment, then snapped it shut. "He didn't look so tough," she continued, circling to Gerald's front and leaning over to inspect his face. She looked up at Crane for a moment. "You got his eyes," she noted, then went back to pacing. "I could've taken him. Any day."

Goodhart snorted from where he was near the wall. Crane had decided that he didn't trust Kitty (for good reason, Goodhart figured; after all, she'd gotten away), so he was stuck watching the wench while they traipsed around town. He looked at Flicker for a moment, then laughed again and looked away.

He wished she'd tried to fight the Joker. She'd be bleeding on the ground right now, instead of chattering away as usual.

Crane frowned at Flicker's description of the Joker, and her harsh words about him. He remained silent, letting her go on her little tangent, and let out a haughty sigh, crossing his arms as she went to inspect Gerald. At her mention of how Crane looked like his father, he uncrossed his arms, glaring at her. "He gave me nothing," he said in an icy tone. "The only reason he's bothering to give me anything _now,_ as it is, is because he's a coward."

"I am not a _coward,_ Jonathan," Gerald said, looking up with a frown. "I don't want to be part of your plans, but…"

"But you know you have to," Crane finished for him. "Because otherwise you'll never get what you want."

"I don't take kindly to blackmail, Jonathan," Gerald said stiffly.

"Don't call me _Jonathan,_" Crane sneered, turning away from the old man. "We're not that close." He turned to Flicker, looking her up and down, and a cruel smirk split his face. "You? Take on the Joker?" he asked. He let out a short, cold bark of laughter. "Now that, I'd like to see," he said, turning away and shaking his head in amusement. "No, he was simply… out of his element."

At this, he stopped in his tracks and turned to Gerald. "I was listening, by the way, when you were talking to him," he said, his brow furrowing in thought. "You said some very interesting things. Are they all true?"

"I don't have to tell you anything," Gerald said. "All I have to do is not give you away to the police or to the Joker."

Flicker bent over to touch her toes, failing miserably. "So, now that we've got your kicks and giggles out of the way..." She paused then, realizing something. She straightened up and propped her hands on her hips. "Wait a fucking minute. We've been _looking_ for that guy for a while, haven't we?" she demanded, stepping forward and poking Crane in the chest. "Well, what the fuck did you let 'im go for?"

"Yes," said Crane, turning away again and facing Flicker, "speaking of which, yes, we have been looking for him for a while. In fact, that was the main idea when this little group formed." He paused, taking off his glasses and cleaning them with a cloth he pulled from his breast pocket. "But that's changed now. Now we have a different plan." Crane shrugged, placing his glasses back onto his face. "Seeing as you don't care either way, I don't see that it would matter much at all to you," he said with a sigh.

Then he turned to Goodhart. "_You,_ on the other hand," he said, indicating him, "you joined this group so that you could fulfill a goal. And I've only brought you ever closer to that goal. Was Maria not just here, in this room? And she could be back here in moments, if given the proper motivation."

"Wait, Maria?" Gerald asked, turning around to face Crane. "Maria, who came with her friend Aidan?"

"Aidan," said Crane with a cold smile, "that was his name."

"Yes…" Gerald said. He paused. "How do you know Aidan?" he asked, getting worried.

Crane sighed, shrugging. "Oh, he was a casual acquaintance," he said, looking away back to Goodhart. "Until his untimely death."

"Death?" Gerald asked in a gasping tone, turning back around. He felt a cold knot forming in the pit of his stomach. Aidan was _dead._ It was the worst possible reason for not coming to a meeting… in perspective, his absence from the AA meeting seemed trivial compared to the truth. He was _dead,_ and not even Maria had known it. "You killed him?" Gerald asked, hoarse.

"You know, you ask too many questions, old man," Crane said, frowning slightly at Gerald. "You would do well to mind yourself."

"You go too far, Jonathan," said Gerald, shaking his head as he turned away again.

Crane turned to Gerald, angry, his clear eyes flashing. "I told you not to call me Jonathan," he said, his voice dangerous.

"Fine," said Gerald, shaking his head. "_Doctor Crane._"

Crane nodded, turning away again, and looked at Flicker. "You want to go out and fight the Joker?" he asked. "Be my guest." He smoothed out the front of his jacket, clearing his throat. "I'm going to go check on our guest," he said with a deep exhale. "Come get me when you're done fighting him. Unless you're dead. Then don't bother."

"Ooooh-ho-hoho." Flicker paused and crouched down in front of Gerald, looking up into his stricken face. "Dudsy-dearest _wants_ something?" She glanced over at Crane, highly amused. "And Junior here knows what it is."

She then stood up to address Crane's insults. "I totally fucking _could_," she protested, rolling back on her heels and nearly falling in the process. She caught a sharp snicker from Goodhart, and fumed silently. "I wouldn't want to make it an _unfair fight_, 's all," she explained lamely, flicking her lighter open again irritably. She looked up. "Anybody got a smoke? Or maybe some, ah..." She paused here and leered unpleasantly at Gerald. "LSD?"

Goodhart, meanwhile, was busy snarling in anger. "What do you mean, she was just here?!" he cried angrily, walking over to the smaller man and grabbing him by the tie. His pupils were dilated, breathing heavy. "If I'd have known that, she'd be _dead_ by now, like her little friend," he spat, throwing Crane back and stalking angrily across the room.

He paced for a moment, unsure what to do. Crane's offer had caught his attention, so he finally cleared his throat and asked, in a strained voice, "What _kind_ of motivation?"

"Of course you could," said Crane with a sigh, adjusting his glasses. "Please, be my guest. Lord knows it would improve the quality of _some_ of our lives..."

Gerald glared at Flicker, but he could not hold it in any longer when she asked him for illegal drugs. "Do you even know where you are?" he demanded, putting his hands on his knees, starting to get up. Crane shot him an icy, dangerous look, and Gerald sat back down, but he continued to glare at Flicker. "This is a facility for people trying to _recover_ from drug abuse," he informed her, curtly.

Crane smirked, glancing back at Gerald. "Oh, and you're doing such a good job of helping them, I see," he said sarcastically. "Was Napier one of your success stories?"

Gerald ignored him, continuing to glare at Flicker. "There are no drugs here," he told her. "And no cigarettes. If you want that, I suggest you leave."

"And I suggest you not give orders to the people I'm working with, old man," said Crane, turning around and glaring at Gerald. "They know their place. You would do well to mind them." Then he was suddenly turned back to Goodhart, who had grabbed hold of his tie. "Put me down," he told the big man slowly, frowning darkly. When Goodhart complied, Crane smoothed out the front of his attire for a moment before answering.

"I mean exactly what I said," he explained slowly, watching as Goodhart walked away in a rage. "She was just... here." He pointed to the floor in front of him, to indicate 'here'. He considered Goodhart's question, his face slowly starting to contort into a disdainful sneer. "There are any number of things we could do to get her to come back," he said, holding out a hand, palm-up. "But I don't see why any of them would be of any benefit to our cause..."

Then he paused, and his eyes started to slowly widen behind his glasses. He stared down at his open palm for a moment, then up at Goodhart. "You..." he said, his voice distant. Then a strange smile crossed his lips. "You absolute _genius,_" he said, looking up at Goodhart with a wicked, triumphant grin. "Well, not _genius,_ but..." He waved off the rest of the statement, turning back to Gerald. "Do you have a phone?" he asked.

"Yes," said Gerald, sounding confused.

"And will it register under your name on anyone's caller ID?" Crane asked, seeming excited about his plan.

"It... it should," said Gerald, more confused than ever. He looked between Crane, Flicker, and Goodhart, and then his gaze went back to Crane. "What are you planning?" he asked.

"It doesn't really concern you, old man," said Crane. "Where is the phone?"

"You aren't planning on hurting Maria, are you?" Gerald asked, not moving to get any kind of phone. "I can't let you do that, Jonathan."

"Don't... call me..." Crane said in a low, vexed voice, "...Jonathan."

"Maria is a friend of mine," said Gerald, starting to get up again. "I won't let you hurt her."

"Would you rather I kill your grandchild?" Crane asked, staring at him intently. "Would you rather I move out of Gotham forever, so you never have to see me, or your grandson, ever again? Hmm?" His crystalline eyes bore into Gerald's. "_Would_ you?" he asked, enunciating dangerously.

Gerald stared back at him for a long, silent moment. Then he gave up, sitting back down, and pulled his cell phone from his pocket, handing it over towards Crane. "That's what I thought," Crane said, triumphant, taking the phone from Gerald's hand. He pulled Aidan's cell phone from his pocket and searched through the contacts for Maria, and, when he got to Maria's number, he started to input it into Gerald's phone.

Gerald stared up at him, frowning sadly. "You shouldn't use my grandchild as blackmail," he told him, shaking his head solemnly. "I have a right, as the grandfather..."

"You have no rights, old man," said Crane with a sigh, closing Aidan's phone. "You left my mother when she needed you most. What makes you think you have _any_ right to _anything_ that has to do with me?" He put the phone up to his ear and listened as it rang. Then he held it out to Gerald.

"Make something up," he told him. "Be convincing. Just get her back here."

Maria was still happily distracted by the recent turn of events that she almost missed her phone vibrating in her purse. She frowned and looked down at the bag, up at the road, and then down again, torn. Finally, she gave in. Maybe it was Eddie (she certainly hoped not; that would just spell _desperate_), or Thomas (she certainly hoped _so_; she needed some answers).

She kept one hand on the wheel and haphazardly dug into her purse, trying to keep an eye on the road as she searched frantically for her phone. Finally, she pulled it out and immediately checked the caller ID. _Crane, Gerald_. She frowned; what would he be calling her about?

And, now that she thought about it, how the hell had he gotten her number?

She shrugged and answered. "Gerald? S'that you?"

"Maria," said Gerald, his voice stilted and somewhat shaky. "This is Gerald… from the AA group. I'm… sorry to call you like this…" He looked up into his son's emotionless face, his eyes locked with Crane's ice-blue ones, and he swallowed. "I just found out something important," he said. "It's about your friend… Aidan." He paused again. Crane raised his eyebrows.

"Tell her to come," he said in a low voice, so as not to be heard by Maria. Gerald stared at him for a moment, clearly not wanting to call Maria back into the death-trap. Crane's expression darkened. "Tell her to come, old man," Crane said, a little louder.

"I will not drag her into this madness," Gerald hissed back, trying not to be heard on the phone.

"You will," Crane responded coldly in barely above a whisper, "or I'll kill the woman carrying your grandchild."

Gerald's expression instantly turned to one of angry shock. "You wouldn't," he whispered. "That's your child!"

"I can always have others," Crane hissed back. "But who knows if you'll be alive to see those?" He glared at Gerald. "Tell her to come, old man," he said, his eyes boring into Gerald's.

Gerald stared at him for another long moment, then sighed, giving in, and turned back to the phone. "I need you to come here, Maria," he said, his voice perhaps a bit too loud, hoping to cover up the inaudible, whispered conversation of earlier. "We can talk face-to-face about this… it's important." He stared at Crane, his expression dark and sad. "You need to know this," he told Maria. "And I think I might be the only person who can tell you."

Crane nodded and snapped the phone shut, then stood straight, smoothing out the front of his jacket. Gerald glared at him as he turned away and started moving back towards the side door. "You're not a good person, Jonathan," Gerald told him.

Crane paused, closing his eyes, and took a deep breath. Then he let it out with a nonchalant shrug. "That's all right," he said, his voice airy. "I don't aspire to be." And with that, he opened the side door, let himself in, and closed it behind him.

The car drifted slowly to a stop at a red light, and Maria looked down at the phone in confusion. He'd hung up. She snapped her own phone shut and put it in her pocket, contemplating what Gerald had said.

Something about Aidan? Had he figured out why her ex had missed the meeting, then? Whatever his reason, she didn't really care, to be honest; it wasn't that late, and she had nothing better to do that night than mope around her hotel room and continue looking for low-rent apartments. So she swung the car around in an illegal U-turn that, thankfully, no cop was around to see and headed back towards the building.

The lot was completely dark, save for one flickering street light, when she got there. She wrapped her coat more securely around herself and went quickly into the building, where she found the circle of folding chairs still set up. She spotted Gerald instantly; the other members had gone home. "What did you need to talk to me about?" she asked, skipping straight to the point as she pulled up a chair closer to him and seated herself in it.

Gerald folded his hands together as he looked balefully up at Maria. He took a deep, shaky breath, then let out a long sigh. "Maria," he said. He reached forward, taking her hands in his, and stared into her eyes. "Maria," he said again, just as nervously and quietly, "Aidan is…" He paused, swallowing, and looked away for a moment. Then he looked back at her. "Maria," he said, "Aidan is… dead."

He looked at her, his eyes sad, and then glanced behind him, nervously. No one had emerged from the side room since Crane and the others had disappeared into it just minutes ago, and no sounds were coming from it… he decided to take a chance. Gerald turned back to Maria, his expression frantic and scared. "Maria," he said in a low, quick voice, "listen to me. You can't stay here. There are people here… bad people…" He glanced over his shoulder again, making sure no one was listening. "They want me to keep you here so that they can hurt you." He turned back to her, his eyes wide, his expression scared. "I don't want you to get hurt."

He pressed her hands in his, perhaps a bit too tightly, trying to stop his hands from shaking. "You have to go," he told her. "Go, run to the police, tell them that Gerald Crane is in peril. Tell them that there's someone here…" His voice trailed off as he looked behind him again, then back at her. "Tell them that there's someone very dangerous at the AA building," he told her. "Tell them that they need to come as soon as possible. _Please,_ Maria." He looked up into her eyes. "I'm putting my life into your hands."

"A very poor choice."

Gerald turned, terrified, to see Crane standing in the side doorway, glaring at him. Gerald let go of Maria's hands and stood, shielding her with his body. "I won't let you hurt her, Jonathan," he told Crane simply. "This has gone too far."

Crane frowned at him. "_I'm_ not interested in hurting her, old man," he said with the start of a bitter chuckle. He stepped into the room then, revealing Goodhart standing behind him. "_Him,_ however," he said, indicating the large man, "I can't speak for." A cruel grin began to spread across his sallow face. "Long time, no see, Maria?" he asked. He chuckled.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Aren't you glad to see your own father?"

Maria was digging for her cell phone before Gerald was halfway done with his frantic explanation, more out of instinct than anything. She was standing, holding the phone in her hands and searching through her contacts for Gordon's number, but stopped and looked up. The phone clattered to the floor when she saw Crane.

She backed up a step. "I haven't found Napier yet," she said quickly, backing up a step. She forgot about her cell phone for the moment; she just needed to get away from Crane before she had a panic attack. "I swear I've been looking. He's hard to fi..."

Her voice petered off when she finally noticed her father.

There was a very long silence, during which the two stared at each other, Maria in fright, Charles in savage satisfaction. Then they moved at the same time, each plunging a hand into their pocket. Charles' came out first holding the gun he'd scavenged at the bar. He raised it quickly, pulled the trigger, and...

...Nothing happened.

It was too much for Maria. Aidan was dead and Crane was there and her _father_ was there shooting a gun at her and she was going to die and suddenly her breathing shot out of control and things were spiraling down into a cool blackness that was almost relief compared to what was happening.

Goodhart watched impassively as Maria dropped to the floor, unconscious. He snorted. Typical female. They really were the weaker sex, whether they liked to admit it or not. Then he sighed and inspected his gun. As he'd thought, he'd used his entire supply of slugs on that worthless boy the night before. "I'm out of bullets," he informed Crane.

It wasn't that he couldn't have killed his daughter some other way. He just found the quick effectiveness of a gun to be much preferable to getting his hands dirty. And he had no doubt that the blood of a demon was _not_ something he wanted on his hands, at least physically.

Crane turned to Goodhart, critical. "You're out of bullets?" he hissed, glaring at him. "You wanted me to get her all the way back here, which I did, so you could kill her... and you're out of bullets?" He scoffed. "If you wanted to kill her that badly, then why didn't you?" he asked. He let out a short bark of bitter laughter. "But _no_, you, being _so_ intelligent, you had to get her all the way back here, only to be out of bullets."

Crane laughed again, his laughter cold, biting, and sarcastic. "Do you really _need_ bullets?" he asked then, taking a step closer to Goodhart, sneering up into his face. "If you want to kill her so badly, then just _do_ it!" He pointed behind him, to where Maria had fainted. "Go on!" he shouted. "Kill her! _Maraigh pron! Anbhas!_" He turned to look at Maria, to further illustrate his point, but his face went blank and he paled slightly as he suddenly realized that Maria was gone. So was Gerald.

"_Damnaigh!_" he shouted, kicking one of the empty chairs. He turned back to Goodhart, furious. "She's gone," he said, throwing up his hands in frustration. "She's gone, and he's gone, and hell knows where they're going!" He turned away from Goodhart and began pacing irritably, putting a hand to his head, trying to calm his flared-up nerves. "They're gone," he said again, his voice low.

Crane paused a moment, closing his eyes, and put his hands by his side, flexing them irritably. Then he turned to Goodhart. "Get the woman," he said, pointing in the direction of the back room. "We're going to find them. And I'm going to make that old man pay for crossing me." He took a deep breath, then let it out in a low, long exhale. Then he straightened his jacket, smoothing it out, and readjusted his glasses on his face. "I'm going to make him pay," he said, quieter.

Gerald glanced over his shoulder into the backseat of his beat-up old car, then back at the road. He was glad that his son was such an enthusiastic talker; he had been totally distracted by his own tirade, so Gerald had had the opportunity to take the unconscious Maria and make a run for his car. Now he was on his way into the more residential, less shady part of Gotham. He glanced into his rear-view mirror. He was not sure whether to go to the police or to the hospital. Both sounded like equally good options, but, at the same time, both sounded equally bad.

Gerald stared at the road ahead, frowning worriedly. Of course, turning against his son meant that he would never see his grandchild. But, if being a part of his son's life to the extent of being a grandfather meant that he had to stand aside and keep silent while his son and his associates murdered and did other just as immoral things, with no remorse, he did not want to be any part of it… even for his grandchild's sake. He let out a long, anxious sigh, glancing back into the backseat again. Maria was still out cold. He looked back at the road, shaking his head. "She's just unconscious," he assured himself quietly. "She'll be fine..."

He pulled into the parking lot of Gotham General and quickly parked, getting out and slamming the door closed as he rushed inside. He ran to the front desk, panting. "You've got to help me," he said, breathing heavily. He swallowed, trying to catch his breath. "Please. I've got an unconscious girl in my car..."

The receptionist looked up at him, looking slightly mortified. She stared at him for a long moment, then picked up a clipboard. "All right, sir," she said, sounding stilted, and still a bit horrified, "what did she take that made her pass out...?"

Gerald shook his head. "Panic attack," he explained, putting a hand to his chest. He paused, leaning against the counter, closing his eyes, trying to calm his pulse to prevent the chance of cardiac arrest. He let out a heavy huff of breath, then looked back at the receptionist. "She had... a panic attack," he said. "I... I thought it would be best to take her here..."

"Do you have any idea what triggered this attack?" the receptionist asked, starting to jot down on her clipboard.

"Can't you please just see her?" Gerald exclaimed, frantic. He glanced over his shoulder. He was terrified that Crane or one of his associates would come in at any moment and grab him, or worse. "Please, she needs help."

"Okay, sir," said the receptionist, setting down her clipboard and getting up. "I'll get the doctor, right away."

Gerald nodded, still panting, and leaned heavily against the counter as the nurse went to get the doctor. He put a hand to his chest, grabbing his shirt, and tried to steady his breathing and his frantically beating heart. He put a hand to his head, settling his nerves. The last thing he needed was to have a heart attack right now. He took a deep breath, standing straight, and headed back out to his car to help the doctor take Maria inside to care for her.

He would stay the night in her room, he decided. Jonathan could not get him as long as he was in a public place.

...He hoped.


	44. Chapter FortyThree

Wayne perched atop a building overlooking an alleyway in one of the shadier parts of the city, in a little-known corner of the Narrows. It was a favourite place for shady people to collect and mastermind their dirty plans, Wayne had come to realize through experience, and so it was the first place he would expect to find someone like the Joker. He was not disappointed. He turned, his attention suddenly captured when he heard the familiar voice of the man who had mocked him from a jail cell, who had threatened to kill Rachel, and who was the very bane of Batman's existence.

Wayne let himself lightly down from the top of the building, landing precariously right behind the Joker. He had to be very quiet, or else he would be apprehended, and he did not want to know what the Joker would do if he were to have the upper hand. Then he realized something. Napier did not seem to be in Joker mode at all. In fact, if anything, he seemed to be completely out of his element. There was no mistaking that this was, in fact, Napier, but he seemed... out of it.

"Napier!" Wayne called in his gruff, masked voice.

Napier paused, holding his balance against the wall, and let out a long exhale. "Fuck," he whispered. "Not now. Any other time, but not now." He rested his head against the wall for a moment, then turned to face Wayne with a wide, lopsided, amiable smile. "Bats!" he said, his voice spiking with faux enthusiasm. "What a wonderful surprise." He leaned heavily against the wall, his brow furrowing slightly as he tried to bring the dark form of the vigilante into focus against the wanly-lighted environment.

"You know I can't see you when it's this dark out," Napier said, slouching forward in Batman's direction. "Come out where I can see you, Bats. It's only fair."

Wayne stared at Napier for a long moment, then stepped into a pool of light. He stood perfectly still, letting Napier see him clearly, glaring at the other man. This was not turning out to be the thrilling challenge he had been hoping for, but he could not discriminate against capturing a dangerous criminal just because the thrill was gone. "Can you see me now?" he asked.

Napier grinned, standing straight again. "Yeah, I can see you," he said. He leaned his body against the wall, letting the hand closer to the wall slip behind his back as he expressed with his free hand. "Y'know, t'night's not really a good night fer you t' be out chasin' villains, Bats," he said, trying to sound more drunk than he knew himself to actually be. He hoped it would work, but the act was not taking much effort. "You know," he said, "I always... I always wondered. Why d'you go around, dressed up like a bat?"

Wayne frowned at his question. Napier did not seem to be trying to pull anything; in fact, he seemed to be totally serious, standing here, trying to strike up some inebriated small talk. Wayne glared at him. "Why not?" he answered simply.

"Ooh," said Napier, wavering his head in a slightly mocking gesture. "Bats is bein' all _mysterious._" He pushed himself away from the wall, making his slightly staggering way towards Wayne, one hand still tucked behind his back, the other expressing flamboyantly. "Thass'okay," he said, wetting his lips. "You can be mysterious if you want. That's your right." He shrugged, stopping closer to Batman, and blinked slowly at him, watching his unwavering expression. "Just like it's my right t' be..." He grinned, indicating himself. "No fun to catch," he finished.

Wayne took a step backwards, his expression dark. "It isn't about _fun,_" he said stolidly. "It's about getting the job done. I'm not going to let you go so you can come back to fight another day, when you're in your element. Why would I do that?"

"For the thrills?" Napier suggested.

"No," Wayne stated firmly. "I don't live for _thrills,_ like you do. I just get the job done." He moved forwards, towards Napier, starting to pull something from his utility belt. He had gotten close enough to Napier to handcuff him when suddenly Napier pulled his hand out from behind his back to reveal a large, wicked-looking switchblade.

"Not so fast, Bats," he said, brandishing it.

Wayne tried to make a move towards Napier, to grab hold of his free hand, but Napier swiped at him with the blade. "You cheap hack," Wayne growled, grabbing hold of Napier's arm and twisting it behind him. "You just never run out of tricks, do you?"

"Well, I try," Napier hissed. He kicked the heel of his shoe to the ground, and out of the toe popped a short blade. He jabbed it into the ground, and Wayne moved his foot in time to not have it impaled. Napier wrenched his arm free from Batman's grasp and sliced at Wayne with the switchblade. "Who's the hack _now,_ Bats?" Napier laughed, licking his lips.

"You," Wayne growled, gritting his teeth and glaring at Napier. Then he lunged for the other man, tackling him to the ground.

Napier grabbed hold of Batman's gauntlet, trying to struggle to push Wayne off of himself, and snarled at the other man, his legs all but flailing as he fought to get out from under Batman. He glanced over to the side, where his switchblade had skittered away, just out of reach. Then he turned back to Wayne, his expression dark and hateful. "You're nothing but a wannabe," he hissed, fighting off Batman's sharp gauntlet-spikes. "You couldn't be one of us, so you had to settle for fighting us!"

"I could never be one of you," Wayne growled. "I could never lower myself to your level."

"I am a respected idol in Gotham," Napier shot back. "What are you? A joke!"

"Funny," said Wayne, "coming from the _Joker._"

Napier bared his teeth, growling at Wayne, then, with both feet, shoved Wayne off of himself and rolled over, snatching up his switchblade. He jabbed it in Wayne's direction, but Wayne manoeuvred out of the way, just avoiding getting stabbed. "Stop running, Bats!" Napier shouted. "What's the fun in that?!"

"I'm not trying to play your little games," Wayne growled.

Napier lunged at Wayne with the switchblade again, and Wayne moved out of the way, but then, on a split second impulse, he turned, slicing Napier across the chest and stomach with the blades of his gauntlet. Napier stopped short, panting, and stared at Wayne for a long moment. Then he looked down at his torso, where the deep cut was starting to blossom fresh, dark blood. The switchblade clattered to the ground as Napier put his hands onto his torso, trying to comprehend the extension of the serious wound. Then he looked back up at Wayne.

"What did you do?" he asked, his voice faint.

Wayne glared at him, but then turned when he heard the sound of sirens. He turned back, looked at Napier one last time, then vanished. He would let the police deal with the now-severely-crippled Joker. He was not going anywhere.

Napier watched Batman disappear, stumbling back against the wall of the side alley. Then he turned, swallowing hard, and pushed himself off from the wall. "I..." he said, his voice hoarse. "I..." He looked back down at the deep gash, then wrapped an arm across it, trying to stop up the bleeding as well as he could. "I have to find..." He looked up, his face pale. "I need to find... Jeanette."

He glanced over in the direction of the sirens, then disappeared down a side alley. Even severely wounded, he would not allow himself to be taken down so easily.

He had a reputation to uphold, after all.

. . .

Napier leaned against an alley wall across from the Iceberg Lounge, staring at the lighted entrance. Tall, silent Tally stood guard at the door, his face set in a stern, stony expression, looking every inch the bouncer he had been assigned to be that night. Napier stared at him for a long moment, then started making his unsteady, weaving way towards the entrance, offering Tally a wide, amiable grin. "Hi," he drawled, stopping in front of Tally. Tally glared at him, but said nothing in reply.

Napier stared at him for a long moment, considering what to say. Then he chuckled, slapping Tally on the arm. "Hey, we can be buddies, right?" he asked. "You, me..." He paused, his dark eyes straying. "You..." he said again, trying to figure out what he was saying. He looked back up at Tally, the grin fading from his face. "You're not buyin' this, are you?" he asked, his voice monotone. Tally continued to stare at him, silent.

Napier wet his lips, staring at Tally. Then he straightened up, swallowing, and moved up to him. "Look," he said, "You got a job to do, I want in... we can work this out." He offered a tight grin to Tally, wavering slightly. "You let me in so I can see my..." he paused. "Cobblepot," he said, thinking on his feet. "And I will..." He paused again, thinking. Then he shrugged, shaking his head. "Can you just let me in?" he asked, hopeful. He hesitated, looking away, then scrunched up his face in a somewhat sarcastic grin. "Please," he added.

Tally stared at him for another long, silent moment, then moved aside. Napier stared at him for a long, dazed moment. "For real?" he asked, surprised. Tally stared at him, silent and glaring. "Okay," Napier said with a shrug, "before you change your mind…"

Napier slipped past Tally, still holding tightly onto his torso. He was positive that Jeanette had moved, after what he had done to her last apartment, and the first person she would go to, the person who would know all the little details about Jeanette, would be her friend who owned this place. He cleared his throat, sitting down at the bar, and stared at Maggie, who had her back to him. He paused a moment, pushing a lock of hair out of his eyes with one slightly pale hand, and cleared his throat again.

"I'm coming," Maggie said, sounding slightly impatient. "Just hold your…" She turned around and stopped as soon as she saw Napier, her eyes wide, mouth slightly open. "Oh," she said, sounding surprised. She stared at him for a moment, then looked at his torso, where he had his arms wrapped tightly around his form. She frowned at his odd posture, then looked back at him. "What happened to you?" she asked.

Napier hesitated a moment, staring at her. Then, with a deep breath, he slowly removed his arms, showing her the large, bloody gash.

"Oh, my God," Maggie gasped, putting a hand to her mouth. She turned around to the bar, picking up a bottle of vodka, and pulled the cap off of it, setting it down on the counter, then turned to get a clean cloth to put some of the liquor on. Napier reached for the bottle to take a swig, but Maggie turned back around, slapping his hand. "No," she said reproachfully. "That's for medicinal use only."

"You ever heard a' _anesthesia?_" Napier mumbled, retrieving his hand. He wrapped the arm around his torso again, holding tightly onto the wound. "Listen, I 'preciate yer help, but all I wanna know is where Jeanette is," he told her, swallowing and wetting his lips. "If you'd just tell me, I'd be happy t' be on my way. I won't scare off your patrons anymore."

"Let me see that," Maggie said, completely ignoring him, holding out a vodka-soaked cloth. "It'll get infected if you don't do something about it."

"It's probably already infected," Napier said. "I don't want your help."

Maggie put her hands on her hips. "Stop being infantile," she said. "Let me see your wound."

"I don't know what that means," Napier said, frowning, "but I'm sure I ain't bein' it. Just tell me where Jeanette is, an' I'll leave."

"Don't argue with him, Maggie," Cobblepot said, moving up behind Napier. "He obviously doesn't want any of our help." He slipped onto a bar stool beside Napier, lazily pulling a cigarette from his breast pocket and lighting up. He stashed his lighter back into his pocket and took a long, thoughtful drag on his cigarette. "You look like you've had a rough night," he said, glancing over at Napier.

"Don't ask," Napier replied stiffly.

Cobblepot shrugged, turning away. "I never do," he answered with a sigh. He considered his cigarette for a moment, then glanced over at Napier again. "Jeanette stayed here for a long time after you left," he told him. "We had a nice long talk about… things."

"You should tell her how you feel," Maggie put in, barely able to contain herself.

Napier looked over at her, incredulous. "Like I've been cut in half by a train," he answered, monotone.

Cobblepot nodded. "Poetic," he mused.

"No, I mean, your _feelings_ for her," Maggie said, leaning on the counter. "You should express your love for her. Go to her, and tell her how you feel about her."

"Maggie, the man is _bleeding,_" Cobblepot pointed out, impatient. "Somehow, I don't think _loose internal organs_ are a very romantic proposition." Maggie paused, about to respond, then turned away, starting to clean a glass. Cobblepot sighed and turned back to Napier. "Sorry about her," he said, shaking his head, "she sometimes gets ahead of herself."

"I don't have any feelings for Jeanette," Napier said, frowning.

"Of course not," said Cobblepot, waving him off. "But anyways, here's what you were looking for." He pulled the slip of paper with Jeanette's address on it out of his pocket and handed it to Napier. "She should be in at this time of night, if I know her well enough – which I do." He paused, staring at Napier. "And, just so you know," he added, leaning on the counter, "we've never fucked." He took a long drag of his cigarette, then let the smoke seep out from between his lips. "And I'm not queer."

Napier raised his eyebrows, taking the slip of paper from Cobblepot and looking down at it. He could barely make out what it said, but he managed to read it by squinting at it under the light. Then he looked back up at Cobblepot. "That's…" he said, trying to decide what to say, totally lost, "…good, I guess." He had no idea what Cobblepot was referring to, but it was good to know, he supposed.

He cleared his throat, looking at the address again, and nodded, getting up from the bar stool. "Thank you," he said, putting the address into his vest pocket, and he stumbled out of the Iceberg Lounge, holding tightly onto his torso.

Cobblepot turned back around to face Maggie, who was staring at him, looking somewhat surprised. Cobblepot stared at her for a long moment, letting his cigarette smoke in his hand. "Why the expression, Magpie?" he asked.

"You aren't queer?" Maggie asked, incredulous.

Cobblepot paused, considering her question. Then he put his cigarette back into his mouth. "Only on Tuesdays," he answered.

. . .

Napier dragged himself into the hallway, staring intently at the piece of paper, which was now stained with his bloody fingerprints. He looked up, checking the numbers on each door he passed, his pale face lit up strangely in the wan light. He coughed, pushing a sweaty swatch of hair from his eyes as he struggled to find the number that coincided with the number written on the little slip of paper. He shook his head as he passed each incorrect door, getting more desperate and slightly more irritated with each incorrect number.

"Come on, Jeanette," he mumbled, passing another incorrect door. "Don't let me down…"

He passed another door, then paused, having a double-take, and turned back around, moving up to the door and squinting at the number. He compared it to the number on the slip of paper in his hand, then let out a long, satisfied sigh. "Finally," he said under his breath. He put a hand to the door, staining it with a bloody handprint, then banged on the door to get the attention of whoever was inside. Hopefully it would be Jeanette, if the information Cobblepot had given him had not been faulty. If it had…

Well, he was going to give Cobblepot the benefit of the doubt, for now.

Napier banged harder on the door. "Jeanette," he said, perhaps too loud for that time of night, or that close of quarters. "Jeanette, come to your door… you have to come…" He clung tighter to his torso with his free arm, but his sleeve was saturated in blood and it was getting harder to grasp. His hand slipped slightly as he tried to get a firm grip on his abdomen. "Please," he pleaded, banging on her door, spraying the wood with blood. "You have to help me…"

He rested his forehead against the door, breathing heavily. "I know I've been horrible to you," he said, his hand sliding down the door. "But you can't give up on me, Jeanette…" He shook his head, closing his eyes in strained effort. "You can't abandon me," he said, his voice weaker now. "I need you."

Jeanette jumped off of the couch and nearly out of her skin when something banged against the door. She put a hand to her frantically beating heart and took a few deep breaths. It was just somebody knocking on the door. Not a gunshot, or an explosion, or anything like that. Just a knock.

She rubbed at her eyes angrily, brushing away the moisture still there, and hurried to the door. She didn't bother checking the peephole first, instead grabbing her gun from where she'd left it on the counter. She cocked it, opened the door, aimed...

Then paused, surprised. "Ja...?" she said. She said nothing for a moment, then pulled him angrily inside. "Be _quiet_!" she hissed. He was going to wake up the whole damn _complex_.

Only when she had the door securely shut and locked (she checked the knob twice to make sure; the paranoia irritated her, but it was better safe than sorry where her father was concerned) did she turn and face Napier with a scowl. She looked him up and down. "What do you want?" she asked, before she spotted the blood on his hands and clothing. She paused, stepped forward, and pulled his arms away from his chest.

"Shit." She stared at the wound for a moment, then hurriedly pushed him down onto the couch. "Lay down," she instructed, looking around frantically. She didn't have many first-aid supplies; she hadn't picked anything up yet. So she settled with what she did have. She went to the kitchen cabinets and got a roll of gauze, then returned to the couch. "What happened?"

"I jus'-" Napier began, but she had moved his arms aside and looked at his wound before he could tell her. He fell back onto the couch when she pushed him, watching her with sad, intent eyes as she bustled around, looking for some kind of first aid kit for him. He was surprised; he had not expected her to rush headlong into care. He had expected her to yell at him first, which, he had to admit, she had, but she did not even seem concerned about getting blood on her upholstery. She seemed to care about his well-being more than her belongings. It was… surprising.

Napier wet his lips, blinking slowly, then looked back up at her. "I fell off the wagon an' hurt m'self," he said, swallowing, and indicated towards his torso, which he had wrapped his arms around again, trying to stop the bleeding. He paused, wetting his lips again, then pulled his hands away from his stomach to look at the deep, gory gash across his abdomen. The cut had sliced through two layers of clothing to reach his chest and stomach. Blood spilled freely, drenching the front of his clothes and his arms where he had been holding his torso.

He looked up at her with mournful eyes. "I'm juss'a stray," he said, looking away. "Stray dog. In needuva good home." Napier looked back up at her, his eyes pleading. "I needa place t'stay," he told her. "Juss'fer a li'l while. Juss'til I'm a li'l better." He cleared his throat, wrapping his arms around his torso again, and exhaled deeply, looking down at his shoes. "Though I know you're prob'ly th' las' person I should be askin' fer any symp'thy when I've been drinkin'."

He hesitated, then looked back up at her. "D'you still have the girl?" he asked, suddenly seeming intent. "The little girl, with the honey hair... d'you still have 'er?" He stared at Jeanette for a long moment, then looked away. "You prob'ly wouldn't tell me, even if you did," he told himself. "Prob'ly think I'm too... dangerous to see 'er. 'S what everyone thinks." He turned his face away. "'S what they told Kitty," he murmured. "But it doesn't matter now, 'cause Kitty's dead..."

Napier frowned deeply, taking a deep breath. Then he shook his head. "I'm too dangerous," he said quietly to himself.

"Okay, okay, that's fine," Jeanette said soothingly, ripping off strips of gauze and wrapping them around his middle to make a sort of tourniquet for the wound. She had to keep him calm, or he'd pass out. Besides, it didn't really matter what she said. He was drunk _and_ in pain, and that combination would probably keep him from remembering anything she said. She sat back after a moment to inspect her work with a frown. She'd done everything she did. At this point, it would be ideal to get him to a doctor, but...well...

Obviously, he probably wouldn't agree to it.

She rocked back on her heels then, considering his question for a long moment. Then she sighed, glancing towards the bedroom door. "She's still here," she replied. She went back to inspecting the wound. "This needs stitches," she commented with a frown. "Any chance you'd go see a doctor?"

Napier shook his head, gingerly touching the wrapped wound with his still-bloody fingertips, then looked up at Jeanette. "D'you really think it would be a good idea t' take me to a doctor?" he asked, incredulous. "Every p'lice station, hospital, doctor's office, bar, n' hotel in Gotham will be on the lookout fer me. There's no doctor that'll take me." He sighed, looking back at the bloody bandaging around his torso. "I think I'll be fine," he said in a lower voice. "Aint' like I've never been cut up b'fore."

He took a deep breath, then let it out in a long, drawn-out sigh, looking away from Jeanette and the wound. He let his arm, now no longer needed to keep his innards inside his body, dangle off the edge of the couch as he stared off into no particular direction, thoughtful. "I wasn't always like this," he said quietly. He turned back to look at her. "I was happy, once. _Normal._" He looked away again. "I was jus' like everyone else," he said, his tone almost wistful. He paused, staring at one of the cushions on the couch, then looked back up at Jeanette.

"I din' mean all those things I said," he told her, shaking his head. "I mean… you… You don' know what it's like t' be me. But that don't mean you don' know what it's like to be…" He paused, trying to find the words to say, but gave up, looking away. He stared at the wall for a long, silent moment. Then he looked up at her again. "I went t' visit an old friend," he told her. "An'… after talking t' him… it really put my life in perspective." He stared at her, his dark eyes sad.

"I know you didn't mean t' lie t' me," he told her, moving on the couch so his legs hung over the side. He put his hands down on either side of him, leaving bloody handprints on the cushions as he looked up at her. "But you did." He wet his lips, swallowed, and went on, "You kep' tellin' me Kitty was alive…" He shook his head. "She's _dead,_ Jeanette," he said. "I jus' came from a good friend a' mine, who would never lie t' me… He knows all kinds a' people, an' he knows about Kitty." He took a deep breath. "She din' remember me after th' hospital. An' then… she died."

He stared at Jeanette, considering her for a long moment. Then he slowly got up from the couch and began moving towards her. "Kitty's _dead,_ Jeanette," he said. "It's jus' me an' th' little girl. We're all each other has, an'…" His voice trailed off as he tried to think of what to say, but gave up, unable to find the words. He took another step closer to her until he stood right in front of her, staring down at her, taking in her features. "Why does it always have t' come down t' me being like this before we…" He tried to find the words to describe it, but gave up. Instead, he took her face gently in his hands, pressing his forehead to hers and closing his eyes with a sigh.

"It doesn't have to be this way," he said quietly. "It can be better… this whole thing."

His eyes opened slowly, and he stared into her face, his expression tired. Then, slowly and gently, he tilted her face upwards towards his and, hesitating ever so slightly, he neared his lips to hers. He paused, nervous, and then, tenderly, he pressed his lips to hers. He hesitated a moment, then gently kissed her again, his eyes closing. He remained there for a long moment, then his eyes fluttered open again and he looked into Jeanette's face, just staring at her.

"We can just leave all of this behind us," he told her quietly. "Both of us, just give up killing and leave Gotham… They'd never find us." He stared at her, taking in her features. "Just say the word," he whispered.

Jeanette nodded in agreement. "Just thought I'd suggest it," she said, still watching the bandages. He'd just have to be careful for a little while. Maybe stay away from any fights.

She snorted. Right.

She was shocked by his explanation about Kitty. What did he mean, she was dead? She was alive, Jeanette had seen her only a few days ago. Whoever this friend of his was didn't know what he was talking about, or was lying. Probably the latter. But then Jeanette paused to think. If Kitty was dead, then this whole thing was just a huge coincidence. Crane had gotten the wrong woman, Jeannie Rose wasn't really Jack's daughter...

She thought of the little girl, with her brown eyes and curly, honey-colored hair. Not a chance; she was Jack's daughter, through and through. So why did this friend of his insist that Kitty was dead?

And then she couldn't keep thinking about it because his lips were on hers.

It was amazing how dissimilar this felt to the night he'd forced himself on her. He was being genuine, and that's probably what scared her the most. Besides the fact that she didn't _mind_ it one bit. When he finally pulled away, she could only stare up at him like a deer in headlights.

"You're so damn set on being an optimist," she said, somewhat amazed. "You _are_." She paused then and looked away, unsure of how much she should say. Finally, she decided on everything. Hell, if someone was out to kill her, she'd want to know.

"We _can't_. Just...can't. You remember my father?" He'd been a bit drunk at the time; she wasn't sure what he could recall about that night. "He found me tonight. Somehow. I don't know, doesn't matter." She waved her hand, then crossed her arms over her chest tightly. "It's just...he got to me _that easily_, it just feels like there's nowhere I can go." She was silent for a moment, then looked away out the window. "He said he'd kill you, if I didn't do what he wanted," she whispered haltingly. "He said he'd..." She broke off and turned away with her face in one hand.

Napier stared at her for a long moment, taking in her words. Then his expression darkened, and he let go of her face. "Your father?" he asked. "That rat bastard..." He put a hand to his head, then to his abdomen, his breathing starting to work up. He closed his eyes, feeling dizzy, and sat back down on the couch, trying to figure out what to do, or what to say. He looked back up at her, frowning and breathing somewhat heavily.

"I'll kill 'im," he said, his voice low. "I'll _kill_ 'im." He looked down, holding a hand over his bandaged wound. It still hurt, and it was draining him. This exertion of sudden anger was not helping in the least, either. He swallowed, looking back up at Jeanette. "He won't kill me," he told her, shaking his head. "He _can't_ kill me. Because I'm going to kill _him_ first." He looked down again, putting his head in his hand. "Bastard..." he murmured.

Then he looked back up at Jeanette. Her voice was breaking, and she was turning away, as if she were... crying? He stared at her, his brow furrowing slightly. "Jeanette?" he asked. He looked away for a moment, then back at her again. "Don't... don't cry," he said, extending a still-bloody hand towards her. He looked around at the room; it was covered in his bloody handprints. It looked as if someone had been murdered there. He sighed, almost sorry for the damage he had done – not just here, but in every apartment, hotel room, or other place of residence Jeanette had expended due to his reckless, violent behaviour.

Jeanette sat silently, still shocked about what had just happened. She snapped out of it quickly enough at the thought of her father. "I _wasn't_ crying," she snapped. "I was just thinking."

"Sit next to me," Napier said, indicating a place beside him on the couch. "Shh, it's going to be okay. Don't worry about him." He paused, his eyes closing slightly, then he took a deep breath, shaking his head, and looked back up at her. "We can figure this out," he assured her, wetting his lips. "You don't have to worry about a thing." He paused then, thinking, then stared at her.

"What exactly is it that he wants you to do?" he asked.

Jeanette rubbed her sore eyes quickly, still avoiding his gaze. "He just wants me to handle some family business for him," she explained. She didn't even want to think about her father's demand. Then she paused and looked up, meeting his eyes. He deserved a better explanation than that. After all, his life was being threatened by this situation as much as hers. "Did you know...Gotham used to be Rossini territory." She half-smiled. "Back when the Italian-American mafia still held power. We were the big men - and women," she corrected herself, "in town. Everything started going downhill a few years ago."

She gazed distractedly at the painting her father had singled out earlier, the one with the sailboat; ironically, it was a modern piece that displayed a scene off the coast of Italy. "Carmine Falcone, the old boss here in the city, was a distant...cousin, I think?" She let out what might have passed as a laugh. "It's hard to keep them straight. Anyways, he took over right after I left Italy. When the Batman took him out, things started spiraling down for my family. We lost power. There was a huge struggle for control of organized crime...and we didn't come out on top." Here she paused. She couldn't help but feel a little angry, even with her severed ties to her family, at the situation. Was her history ingrained so deeply in her that she couldn't help but feel this way?

She finally continued, "My father told me tonight that he'd sent a few of my closer cousins to America to settle the situation and take Falcone's place after he fell. Apparently, it didn't work out the way he'd like." That was an understatement. "So he...came over to settle things _himself_." She didn't have to explain exactly what that meant; her serious tone did it well enough. "He wants me to get rid of the new blood here. The big kingpins, like...Warren White, if you know him." She couldn't suppress a shudder. "I'm supposed to get any information from him that I can, in any way possible, and then get rid of him."

"Falcone," Napier said, putting his head in his hands. He stayed that way for a long moment, then took a breath and looked up at Jeanette. "Sal Maroni," he said with a deep exhale. "He's a name that's been whispered around in little criminal circles for a while… they say he's been trying to overthrow White for a while, but he's never been able to do it successfully." He stared at her. "He doesn't _sound _like much," he said. "But neither did White, and _now _look at 'im…"

He cleared his throat, wetting his lips, and looked away. "Speakin' of White," he said, his brow furrowing slightly, "he asked me t' work fer him, jus' a li'l bit ago…" His frown deepened a bit. "He… wanted me t'…" He paused, trying to think clearly. "Kill somebody," he said, putting a hand to his head. "I don't really 'member _who,_ though." He shook his head, trying to remember, but gave up, letting his hand drop back to his side. "He's gettin' desperate," he said, looking back up at Jeanette. "Or bored. I'd like to think it was the first one."

He took a deep, contemplative breath, looking away from her. "Your closer cousins," he said thoughtfully. "Carmine Falcone… Sal Maroni…" He shook his head slowly. "Warren White," he repeated, lost in thought. He moistened his palate, staring at the wall. "The power struggle will never cease," he said with a sigh. Then he looked back at her. "Gotham needs someone a little less… I dunno…" He tried to think of the word. "_Organized,_ or…" He shook his head, unsure of where he was going. "They need someone _fresh_ to run this town," he said in a low voice. "Like a _dictatorship…_ someone should overthrow these clowns."

He looked back at Jeanette. "As soon as you take down White, Maroni is gonna take over," he told her. "An' he's gonna be just as bad, if not worse. The only problem is… that DA." He let out a huff of breath, his bangs blowing away from his face before falling back into place. "He prob'ly spends his nights scheming up how to pull the carpet out from underneath Gotham's criminals." He wrinkled his nose, silently snarling at the thought of Harvey Dent. "People like that jus'… piss me off," he growled. "_Workaholics._ He's never gonna get any."

Sal Maroni. Why did that name sound so damn familiar? Jeanette felt like one of her female cousins had married a Maroni some time, a long time ago...She shook her head. It didn't matter. His was just one more name to add to her quickly-growing hit list. She'd have to investigate that D.A., too. She'd heard plenty about Harvey Dent, Gotham's so-called White Knight.

Napier paused for a moment, fixed on that thought, then his dark eyes returned to Jeanette. "I'm not working with all my pistons," he said, making a movement with his hands. He glanced down at his hands, then held them out to Jeanette. "I might need to wash up a bit," he said. He tried to get up from the couch, but fell back down, in pain. He took a deep breath, then, slowly, he lifted himself off from the couch, wavering slightly as he tried to catch his balance. Then he looked up at Jeanette. "We can talk about this tomorrow," he told her. Then he grinned at her.

"The best thing 'bout good wine," he said, tapping his cheek, "is it doesn't give you a hangover in th' mornin'."

Jeanette nodded her agreement, then scowled at his attempt at a joke. "The best thing about _no_ wine," she replied, standing, "is..."  
She raised her eyebrows and left it at that.

Napier opened his mouth to reply to her start of a snide comment, then closed it, unable to think of anything to say. She was right, of course. Not drinking in the first place was better than drinking without the consequence of a hangover. He cleared his throat, looking back at the blood he had left all over the place, making a total mess of her nice apartment, and he felt even more ashamed of himself. Jeanette did not deserve this frustration, and he did nothing to help.

He had said earlier how she always came running back to him, never the other way around, but now, he found himself to be a hypocrite and a fool. The second he had always known, but the first one stung.

Napier looked down at his hands again, then his torso, and his smile faded from his face. "I need to get all this blood off," he said. Then he looked up at her again. "Then I want to see the little girl," he said. He paused, his brow furrowing. "I want to see… _my_ little girl," he said. "My… _daughter._" He took a deep breath. "Jeannie… Rose," he said with a kind of brave finality.

Jeanette looked around her apartment. Bloody hand prints and stains were spattered around her furniture; spots of the carpet were dyed dark red, as well. She sighed. This would _absolutely_ terrify Jeannie Rose. She'd have to clean up. She looked back at Jack with a sympathetic smile. "There's a bathroom down the hall, if you can manage it yourself," she told him, rubbing her forehead with her fingertips. She wanted to go to sleep. "Just don't...over-exert yourself," she suggested. "That's going to take a bit to heal."

Napier moved into the bathroom, turning on the water and putting his hands underneath it, watching as the red water swirled down the drain. He looked down at his bandaged torso, and fumbled with his buttons, managing to pull off first his ruined vest, then his tie, and finally his torn shirt. He let them drop to the floor of the bathroom in a bloody heap, deciding he would fool with them in the morning. Then he turned back to his reflection in the mirror that hung over the sink and inspected his bandaged wound, then his pale face.

He stared at his reflection for a long moment, then sighed. He could not get angry anymore; he had seen his face too many times for that. He knew what he looked like, who he was, and what he was. Getting angry did not solve anything. He looked back down at his wound, which was still covered in slowly drying blood, and, picking up a bath towel that was hanging on a nearby towel-rack, he ran it under the water and began to wipe away at the caked layers of blood on his chest and stomach.

Once he had wiped away the blood, he looked back in the mirror. The wound was certainly severe, but without the excess blood, and with the bandage over it, it did not seem half as bad as he had assumed it to be. He ran a ginger hand down the bandage, admiring the careful work Jeanette had done. He had never thought of her as having healing hands before, since he had almost always seen her holding a gun or some other weapon, but she was a gentle, caring person underneath that tough exterior. He looked back up at his reflection in the mirror.

People could be surprising, once you got past their outer façade.

He dropped the towel onto the floor with his bloody shirt, vest, and tie, and moved out of the bathroom back into the front room. From there, he looked around until he saw the door Jeanette had indicated earlier, when he had first inquired about the girl. He looked over at Jeanette, letting her know he was going in, then turned to the door, hesitated before going in, and then opened it, stepping inside.

The little girl was asleep. He supposed that was for the best; he was not sure if she would be all too happy to see him if she were awake. He paused a moment in the doorframe, staring at the little sleeping form, then made his way into the bedroom and sat down gently on the bed, watching the little girl. She was just like him, he could see now; she had his eyes, his hair… He fingered a golden curl, a faint smile curving up the corners of his lips. He could certainly see himself in her, but he could see Kitty, too. The little girl had Kitty's mouth.

His smile widened a bit at that thought.

He let go of her hair, just staring down at her. Then he leaned forward and, very gently, kissed her forehead. Then he took the covers and carefully pulled them a little higher, tucking the little girl in. Jeannie Rose's eyes opened slightly, and she stared at her daddy for a long moment. Then she murmured, still half-asleep, "You smell funny."

Napier grinned. "Goodnight, Jeannie Rose," he said quietly.

Jeannie Rose stared at him for another moment, then yawned, closed her eyes, and went back to sleep.

Napier sighed, staring down at his daughter, and put a hand gently on her little form. "Goodnight," he said again, quieter. Then he got up from the bed, going back to the door, and let himself out, closing the door slowly, watching the little girl disappear from his view as the door closed. He paused for a long moment, staring at the closed door, almost longing. Then he turned to Jeanette.

"I hope the couch isn't the only place left to sleep," he said with a grin. "Because then we'd have to share it."

The apartment was as clean as Jeanette was willing to make it. She'd bleached the bloody spots in the carpet, and tried to get those out that were on the couch. Finally, she'd been forced to admit defeat; instead of cleaning them, she simply turned the cushions upside-down. It wasn't like anyone would find them there, anyways.

She looked up briefly to watch Jack enter the bedroom, then went back to work. Either he could handle himself by now, or...She didn't honestly think there _was_ an "or", at this point. He'd be fine with Jeannie Rose. Her trust was rewarded when he emerged from the room a moment later, looking a little more at peace than he had the rest of the night.

She stood up and stuffed the cleaning supplies back into the pantry, looking at her handiwork on his chest for a moment. She prayed it would hold. Any more blood loss, and he could be in serious trouble. Then she turned and headed towards the guest bedroom. "I took an apartment with two bedrooms, this time," she told him, pausing in the doorway. "Just in case."

Most of her clothing had been stuffed into the closet; she hadn't exactly had time to unpack her things earlier. She pulled out some very casual sweatpants and a tank top to sleep in, changed quickly, then went back into the living room, armed with some spare blankets from the closet. "I'll take the usual," she said, tossing her supplies onto the couch and following them with a tired sigh. "The bed's all yours." She motioned lazily towards the bedroom, then pushed her head into her pillow.

Napier moved to the doorway of the guest bedroom Jeanette had indicated for him, then stopped, putting a hand on the doorframe, paused a moment, and then looked back at her. He had never seen her like this before, he realized; she was always wearing the height of couture, with her immaculately preened hair, her icy, unapproachable attitude, and her perfect makeup. Even the other times he had spent the night at her place – wherever her place happened to be – she had always slept in her clothes. It was probably not a choice she had consciously made, but it still surprised him to see her there, dressed in casual pyjamas, tired from doing work any housewife might do.

He smiled faintly. If anything, it was a bit endearing to see the proud lioness all of a sudden seem so very… _human._

Napier turned away from the doorway, quietly moving back towards the couch. Once there, he bent down to Jeanette, putting a hand on her smooth shoulder, running it slowly down her slender, muscular arm. Then he bent down to her, touching his face to hers in a kind of nuzzle, before gently kissing the corner of her mouth. He moved his hand around to her back, pulling her closer to his body, her skin on his, and buried his face in her neck.

"Jeannie Rose is asleep," he told her, moving his face to whisper in her ear. "We have the whole apartment to ourselves." He gently kissed her ear, rubbing his cheek against hers. "There's room enough in the bed for both of us," he said, his fingers playing over her smooth back. "And I'm feeling so lonely… I've never felt this lonely before…"

He entwined his fingers in her long, dark hair. "If you want me to stop, just say the word," he told her quietly. "You just tell me to stop and I will." He pressed his face into her collar-bone, gently brushing it with his lips. "_Do_ you want me to stop?" he asked.

Jeanette thought for a moment, eyes closed, arms bracing herself against the couch. Jack was only like this because he was drunk. He'd wake up in the morning and probably not remember _anything_. Jeanette didn't need this sort of complication in her life, with everything else that was going on; then again, she couldn't really deny that she'd already gotten herself involved, at this point. And Kitty was still alive. That made her pause for a moment.

...Did she really care?

She pulled away and just looked at him. Then she reached up and slowly, carefully traced the scars around his mouth with her index finger, then leaned forward to follow her finger with her lips. "No," she murmured against his cheek, wrapping her arms around the back of his neck. She pressed her lips to his. "Please, no."

Napier felt her hands on his face, and her mouth on his, and he knelt down on the couch, straddling her slender form as he pulled her close to himself, his body on hers, his hands pushing back her sleek, dark hair, pulling out the rubber band that held it back in the tight ponytail, letting it fall freely about her face. Now that he had her express permission, she was his. He kissed her jawline, moving down her throat to the cut of her shirt, and then, taking his hand out from under her, he began to pull down the shirt, running his mouth down her form.

He had been with women before, in the short time since his release from Arkham, but they had all been the same; merely a distraction from the day-to-day. Harleen had been too easy; he had not had to work to get her into bed, and he had not had to work very hard to dispose of her afterwards. But it was not always that way; he had almost had the blonde girl from the hotel, until she had pleaded with him to let her go. He had consented, much to his own surprise. But Jeanette was not pleading for him to stop; she was asking him to do it. And she had no ulterior motive, like the woman from the bar. She just wanted him. And, honestly, he just wanted her.

Napier pulled away from Jeanette, breathing heavily, and reached down with one hand to fumble with the button and zipper of his slacks. He wet his lips, staring into her face, as he slid his pants off and tossed them aside, then leaned back down to her and kissed her avidly again, his mouth desperately wanting hers, before lifting her tank-top up and over her head, tossing it aside with his slacks. He put a hand to her face, holding her there, and looked at her for a long moment before bending and pressing his lips to her ribcage, laying his cheek flat against her chest, listening to her breathe.

She wanted him to do it. No one had wanted him to do it since… the first time he had made love to Kitty.

At the thought of Kitty, he paused. Then he turned his head, pressing his mouth to her abdomen, and then moved up to her throat, and then her mouth again. Kitty was dead, and he was not about to let old memories destroy this moment. All thoughts of his wife were pushed aside as Napier reached down to Jeanette's sweatpants and tucked his fingers underneath the elastic band. Then he looked up suddenly, his eyes wide, his manner keen, like a hunting dog.

"Jeannie Rose is up," he said, looking back down at Jeanette. He stared at her for a moment, then looked back towards the still-closed bedroom door. Then he slid off of Jeanette and, bending down, he picked up the slim woman in his arms and headed for the guest bedroom. He had seen a man do something similar in a movie once; he had never been fond of the film – it was too long for his taste, with not enough action – but women seemed to think it was insanely romantic. He stepped inside the guest bedroom, glanced once more towards the child's bedroom, then closed the door of the guest bedroom.

Jeannie Rose opened the door of her bedroom, yawning. She had been woken up by her Daddy, and now she was thirsty. She opened her eyes, prepared to ask Miss Jeanette for a glass of water, but there was no one there. She paused, slightly confused, and padded quietly into the front room, peering over the side of the couch. "Miss Jeanette?" she asked quietly.

Miss Jeanette was nowhere to be found, but there was certainly something interesting there. Jeannie Rose moved around the couch and picked up the abandoned pinstripe slacks and the tank top, staring between the two. She could tell that they did not belong to the same person, but what they were doing lying there on the floor together…

She looked up suddenly when she heard a noise, and took a step nearer to the guest bedroom. Then she stopped short, staring at the closed door. She looked at the door, then the abandoned clothes, and then back up at the door. Then she turned away from the door, heading back towards her bedroom. "They're trying on new clothes," she told herself, nodding in affirmation. She looked down at the pants and tank top she held in her hands, then down at her pink dress. Then, with a smile, she went back into her own bedroom and closed the door behind her.

. . .

"That was the best I've ever had," Dent said with a satisfied sigh as he turned onto his back, smiling up at the ceiling. He looked over at Rachel. "I guess a little break was what we really needed," he said with a chuckle, running a gentle hand down her cheek. Then he looked back up at the ceiling with a breathy laugh. "Because that was _really great,_" he added, shaking his head slightly, as if he could not believe it.

Rachel stared over at him, smiling, and took the hand that was stroking her face in both of hers. "I'm glad you forgave me, Harvey," she said. "I missed you." She kissed his hand, then rubbed it against her face. "Did you miss me, too?" she asked. She smiled. "I bet you got really lonely without me here," she said with a light giggle. "Were you as lonely as I was, waking up to a cold bed?"

"Of _course,_" said Dent with a somewhat nervous chuckle, looking back over at Rachel. "I missed you so much, Rachel…"

"I bet you were just as anxious to get back to me as I was to get back to you, Harvey," she said, snuggling closer to him, resting her chin on his shoulder and smiling up into his face. "I bet you looked at girls and said, 'Wow, I miss Rachel.'"

"Did you look at guys and say, 'Wow, I miss Harvey?'" asked Dent, grasping for straws.

"Yep," said Rachel with a smile. "All the time."

"So you were seeing other guys," said Dent, smiling at her.

Rachel wrinkled up her nose and smacked him lightly on the shoulder. "Stop it," she said, giggling. "I was not seeing other guys."

"So you walked around with your eyes closed?" asked Dent. "Because that's the only way you could've not been seeing other guys."

"_Harvey,_" Rachel said in a playful, whining voice, turning away with a tickled smile. Then she turned back to him. "So you were seeing other girls?" she asked.

"No, as a matter of fact," said Dent, "I _did _walk around with my eyes closed."

"_Stop_ it," she said again, laughing. "Stop teasing me."

"I'm _not _teasing you," said Dent, taking her hand in his and kissing it. "I didn't see _anyone else_ while we were apart. You know why?"

"Why?" asked Rachel, smiling at him.

"Because I only have eyes for you, dear," he said, rubbing her hand against his cheek.

Rachel opened her mouth to say something, then closed it, just smiling. Then she lay her head against his chest and closed her eyes with a happy sigh. "I'm so glad I've got you, Harvey," she said, laying an arm across his chest and pulling herself close to him. "I'm so glad I'm the only girl for you."

Dent nodded, looking away. "Yeah," he agreed, trying not to sound half-hearted with ignominy. "You're the only girl for me, Rachel."


	45. Chapter FortyFour

A sudden light in her pitch black bedroom made Kaitlyn groan and roll over. A minute later, some piece of paper was shoved in her face.

"What does this look like to you?"

"Wha'the fugg time's it?"

"Two. Come on, what does this look like to you?"

"Izzat mornin', 'r afternoon?"

"Morning." Something jabbed her sharply in the side; Kaitlyn groaned again. "Now _what_ does this look..."

"Fine, fine, calm the fuck down," she muttered, cracking an eye open. The fuzzy image on the page in front of her slowly came into focus. It was a bullet, bloodstains faintly visible on its long surface. She leaned forward a bit, squinting, then looked up at Robert's concentrated face. "A bullet?" she suggested.

"I mean what _kind_, numbknuts," Robert replied, shoving the picture forward again. Kaitlyn peered closely at it for a quick moment, then flapped her hand and turned away.

"'S a .300 Win Mag," she said after her quick assessment. "Prob'ly imported. They make a lot of 'em over in Europe, the Mediterranean..." She broke off and yawned, then took the photo and inspected it more closely. "This'n's a real specific make, though. Real new, looks like. Not usually sniper material, but they've gotten more popular in the last few years. An' these hint at sniper use, specifically." She trailed her finger down the grooves pictured on its side; they were a refined method used in modern bullet-making that boosted the accuracy of a bullet. She paused and thought for a moment with a furrowed brow, then looked up at Robert. "Those markings. They're jus' like that rifle bullet from..."

"The clown shooting a few days ago," Robert finished with an exhausted smile. He pulled her covers back up to her chin. "Right. I'll explain in the morning. Thanks, Fuse." He left as she blew a lazy raspberry at her old nickname, and rolled over to go back to sleep.

. . .

Obnoxiously loud, upbeat pop music screamed from Noah Sweets' alarm clock radio. It lasted only a moment; Noah's fist crushed the radio before it even reached the refrain. He groaned and rolled over.

An hour later, something woke him again by nudging his shoulder. His hand reflexively flew up and grabbed whoever it was with an iron grip. A tired sigh issued from somewhere above him. "How long will you insist upon giving me new gray hairs every morning, Master Noah?"

"As long as Jenna insists on tampering with my alarm."Noah opened his still-foggy blue eyes and focused them blearily on the white-haired gentleman standing next to his bed. He smiled and relaxed his grip. "Besides, Ben, you've already _got_ all gray hair."

"A fact you remind me of daily," Benjamin replied, moving to the large windows. He threw open the curtains. Noah hid under his covers like a child and moaned in protest. "Breakfast is ready downstairs, and you have a conference scheduled in half an hour at The Towers." This made Noah sit up straight for a moment, then throw off his covers. He dashed into his enormous walk-in closet to look for a business suit as Benjamin left the room with a smile and a shake of his head.

"Always on the move."

The grounds of Sweets Mansion were luxurious. Most of the land was _exclusively_ luxurious; enormous gardens, fountains, and other aesthetically pleasing but essentially useless features stretched across the acres of land on which the mansion had been built. Surprisingly, Jenna Sweets was spending her time in the more functional part of the grounds this morning.

The moment she'd shown an interest in gymnastics, her parents had pounced on the opportunity for their daughter to excel at something (she'd shown no patience for the violin, and her swim instructors constantly complained about her flighty inattention). They dumped several million dollars into a state-of-the-art gymnasium expansion on the mansion. Only when the construction was complete did she politely and eloquently (as eloquent as a six-year-old can be) informed her parents that she _loathed_ practicing inside, and _absolutely detested_ the room they'd built for her.

Several months later, construction was completed on an outdoor gymnastics practice ground. At least, her parents figured, it was easier to care for than a pony.

Jenna was a girl of refined taste. She woke up early each morning with the sunrise and the birds. She'd get dressed in one of her bright, dangerously short cocktail dresses or a thousand-dollar leotard, if she was in the mood to work up a sweat. She would go to the dining room, where Benjamin had prepared some extravagant breakfast feast; sometimes it was imported bacon with ostrich eggs. More often she just preferred Trix two-color swirl yogurt.

This morning she'd headed out to the practice yard after breakfast. She was only halfway through her routine of stretches and warm-up flips when she noticed her brother trotting out to the field in his business suit. She waited until he was close to drop down from the uneven bars.

"I totally forgot our business meeting with Wayne Enterprises," Noah told her, looking down at his tie as he futilely attempted to straighten it. Jenna watched him for a minute before giggling and moving to fix it herself. She was rewarded with a grateful smile. "We've got to go."

Her smile slipped away, replaced with a pouty scowl. "We?" She returned to the bars and jumped to grab the lower one, swinging back and forth as she stared irritably at her younger brother.

"We've got to keep appearances up. You know." Noah shrugged. "I can't run this company by myself. Come on. We're going to be late." He started walking away without her answer, then paused to call back, "And would you stay away from my alarm clock?"

Jenna smirked and swung herself into a flip, grabbing the higher bar at the top of her arc and then gracefully dropping to the ground. "All right, be there in a few," she called back before starting up a complex routine.

A few. Sure.

. . .

Wayne checked his Rolex with a sigh and went back to pacing the conference room of Wayne Enterprises. Without Fox around to keep him and the rest of the company in check, Wayne Enterprises was, very slowly, starting to hit a downward slope. Since Fox had walked out on Wayne, the employees of the underground sector of WayneTech had been less and less likely to show for work; Wayne had noticed that one, Jervis Tetch, WayneTech's official blueprint-checker, had not been at work for at least a few days.

Wayne checked his Rolex again with an irritated frown. He had scheduled a meeting with the Sweets, another high-end family of Gotham, in hopes of boosting Wayne Enterprises' numbers. The only thing it was succeeding in boosting, however, was Wayne's blood pressure.

It was not that Wayne Enterprises was losing money hand over fist; its gradual loss of income was going at a snail's pace. It was still the highest-grossing organization in the whole of Gotham City, but nothing stayed the same forever, and Wayne knew it. He had decided not to worry himself about it; Wayne Enterprises was still making plenty of money to not draw attention to itself in the stock market. He only hoped it would stay that way.

Wayne tapped his watch, then checked it against the clock on the wall of the conference room, making sure his watch was not fast. He was willing to give the Sweets the benefit of the doubt; perhaps something had happened. Maybe their watch was slow. Perhaps they were having car trouble. But, knowing the Sweets – and, more than that, knowing their money – any of those possibilities seemed not only slim, but impossible. Wayne sighed and sat himself down in one of the padded chairs around the conference table.

"They just don't care enough to get here on time," he told himself with a sigh, looking at his watch again. Then he shook his head and put his hands in his lap. Looking at the time just upset him. "I'm sure it's entirely explainable," he assured himself. "They agreed to come, didn't they? They _must_ be interested in a business endeavour…"

He tapped his foot against the floor for a moment, biting his lip as he looked around the empty conference room. Then he checked his watch again, frowning. "Damn it," he said with an irritated sigh.

Noah fixed his hair, adjusted his jacket, and smoothed out his face into a look of detached superiority as the secretary outside of Wayne's conference room buzzed him in. He was going to play it absolutely cool, he decided as he worked his bleach-blonde hair into its usual stylish flip. No need to apologize for being late and wasting Wayne's time; in his opinion, his rival businessman had no time _worth_ wasting. So he stepped into the room with a friendly nod to the receptionist.

"Morning, Bruce," he said loudly, keeping his hands firmly at his sides and not even blinking at the (probably impolite) usage of Wayne's first name. He disliked Bruce Wayne. In his mind, they were in a constant battle to one-up each other, even if Wayne was too slow to figure it out yet. Noah had had to live with seeing Wayne's disgusting mug all over the papers for the past few years. He himself had gotten almost no mention for his company's amazing advancements in technological engineering. No, Gotham had certainly decided who their premier billionaire was.

Well, he thought with an icy smile, that would change if everything went as he hoped.

"I believe I explained over the phone _part_of what this meeting is about," he continued, not taking a seat around the enormous conference table. This wasn't a friendly _luncheon_, for God's sake. "I'm proposing a business agreement, for the benefit of both of our companies. You see, I like to keep a close eye on the stocks..." He broke off and turned as the door to the room opened once more.

Jenna entered the room, still putting up her long hair into its usual pigtails. She smiled at Wayne after a short evaluation and offered a polite, "Got a bit held up. My apologies." Then she looked to her brother, who was watching her with his eyebrows raised in disbelief. "I'm here, aren't I?" she asked him loudly, fixing the straps of her short, fluttery white dress then finally standing still. The two were obviously brother and sister, seen standing next to each other; they had both inherited the shockingly blonde hair and blue eyes of their mother.

Noah scowled and turned back to Wayne. "As I was saying, Bruce, not everyone's so oblivious to the stock market." His smooth smile appeared once more, and he glanced out the wall of windows like a prince overlooking his domain. "I've seen the numbers, and, frankly...Wayne Enterprises has taken a blow." His eyes carefully searched Wayne's and he smiled craftily. "And I heard through the grapevine that your number-two man is on a, shall we call it, _extended leave_."

Jenna stood by during the discussion, still not entirely sure why she was here. Sure, she was the elder sibling, but her brother had always taken the lead role regarding their family business. She was content for the moment, however, to just watch Wayne. He was a good-looking as the tabloids made him seem, she decided with a distracted smile. Maybe her brother was right; this _was_ a venture worth pursuing. She took a seat with a look at her brother and relaxed, cupping her cheek in the palm of her hand.

Wayne frowned as Noah entered the room, taking note of his superior attitude, and watched as the younger man crossed to the conference table and took a seat. He cleared his throat, trying to set his face in a somewhat amiable, interested expression as Noah listed off a practiced monologue of disguised insults, some of which were not as well-hidden as others. A bitter, somewhat resentful grin began to creep at the corners of Wayne's mouth as he listened with growing impatience to Noah's speech, until finally Noah gave him a chance to speak.

"Well, Mister Sweets, as you've pointed out..." he began, but he was cut off by the door opening and the other Sweet sibling entering the conference room. He sat back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap, and watched as she came in, explained herself a bit, and then moved over to the conference table, herself. He could not help but notice her skimpy outfit, the low cut of her fluttery white dress, and could not help but wonder how she thought it was appropriate to leave the house looking that way.

Then he realized that the only reason he thought that was because the only woman he had ever shown any real interest in always wore long-sleeved dress-suits.

Wayne raised his eyebrows, offering Jenna Sweet a friendly smile. "Welcome to the meeting," he said, trying to keep the bitterness at her lateness out of his tone. Then he turned to the both of them, placing his folded hands on the table-top as he listened to Noah's less-than-subtle railing on both his professional and personal issues. He frowned when Noah mentioned Fox, but decided against saying anything. He needed this deal, though he would rather die than admit it at the moment.

"I can see where you're coming from, Mister Sweet," Wayne said, nodding his head. He glanced over at Jenna, to find that she was staring quite avidly at him. He offered her a professional smile, then went on, "But Wayne Enterprises really hasn't taken as much of a dive as you seem to imagine it has." He opened his hands towards Noah, palms-up. "Wayne Enterprises has been doing _quite _well... despite some _staff changes,_" he added with an emphasis towards Noah. "We've been going through a rough patch with our sales, what with this Joker scare, but, in all, Wayne Enterprises has been doing quite well."

He glanced over at Jenna again. Her gaze was beginning to be the slightest bit unnerving, but, Wayne realized, he could probably use it to his advantage. He raised his eyebrows at her with a slightly overly-friendly smile, paused a moment, and then went on, "Wayne Enterprises has merely been trying to expand its horizons on a more domestic scale." He smiled at Jenna for a moment longer, then turned back to Noah. "We've been doing a lot of foreign trade lately, and I thought it would be a refreshing – and beneficial – to Wayne Enterprises to do more, er... inside work."

He grinned at Noah then and shrugged, leaning back in his chair again. "That's _my_ view on the matter," he said, matter-of-factly. "Though I'd be happy to hear _your _views."

Noah scowled and sat up stiffly in his chair. That damn Wayne, always acting so _superior_. He had no right. They were nearly the same age (three or four years made no difference); Noah was every bit as business savvy as Wayne. So, when he spoke again, his voice was taut, irritated. "Well, _Bruce_, the way I see it, your company's taken quite a dive. And it's not recovering fast, is it?" He leaned forward with a leer. "The current economy is certainly no environment to nurture a failing business..."

A light cough interrupted him. He glared over at Jenna, who ignored him. She leaned slightly towards Wayne and clasped her hands on the table in front of her. "I believe what my brother is _trying_ to say, Mister Wayne," she explained, looking once at Noah (if looks could kill, she thought; if looks could kill), "is that we are just as concerned about the future of Gotham's economy as a whole as we are about our own company.

Her brother remained sullenly silent. She was doing pretty well on her own, for now. Her business facade probably wouldn't last long. Jenna smiled sweetly at him, then went on. "_Some_ sort of joint venture would likely be beneficial to everyone." She hesitated. His discomfort at discussing Lucius Fox had been quite clear earlier. She added tactfully, "And it _could_ help shore up any difficulties your research and development department might be having due to the staff changes you mentioned."

Her brother then jumped back in. "Sweets Industries is looking to merge," he said bluntly, lacing his fingers together on the table in an unintentional mimic of his sister. "Joined with your own company, we could be a powerhouse." He didn't bother mentioning the personal benefits he would reap from such a merger; neither Wayne, nor his sister, nor anyone else, for that matter, could know his true reason for wanting to merge.

Wayne's frown darkened into an unmistakeably irritated expression as Noah Sweets addressed him in such a straightforwardly hostile manner, but he did not move from his reclining position in his swivel-chair, his hands folded absently across his stomach. This man, who had shown so much interest in pursuing a joint endeavour with the company he was now railing so ardently against, was obviously trying to get some kind of raise out of Wayne. Either that, or he did not quite understand how business-meetings were supposed to run; Wayne decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. He watched Noah as the younger man began to get fervently enthused about insulting the nature of Wayne Enterprises' business, and he cocked his head slightly at Noah's last comment.

"I don't believe _'failing' _is quite the word for it, Mister Sweets," he said, still trying to keep a cool head and a completely business-like nature. If there was one thing he had learned from his father, and from being the sole inheritor of Wayne Enterprises, it was that professionalism in the face of ridicule was the best policy any businessman could hope to remember. Noah Sweets had inherited his money from his parents, and so Wayne deduced that he probably did not have a lot of experience that would tell him what to do with it, or how to act around others when it was involved, but, after all, he, Wayne, had also inherited his fortune from his successful father's business, and so he was not about to hold that factor against Sweet.

His thoughts were interrupted by Jenna Sweets inserting herself into the conversation, and he looked over at her when he heard her light cough that obviously indicated that she wished to speak. He raised his eyebrows at her, hoping that she would be a bit more hospitable, and he was not disappointed. Jenna's clear-cut, well-thought-out, even polite explanation of their interest was much preferable to her brother's tirade, and Wayne found himself paying rapt attention to her explanation. Then his attention was stolen back again by Noah, who just had to put in his two cents. Wayne almost grinned. The man was some kind of upstart, and that was not going to be easy to work with.

Then again, Wayne reminded himself, he had worked with more difficult people in the past. The Sweets would be, well... a piece of cake.

"I understand," said Wayne, nodding, and he leaned forward, folding his hands on the table like the siblings. He looked between them. "I have had a slight decrease in staffing as far as my technological research and development department goes, as you've noted..." he nodded towards Jenna. "However, Wayne Enterprises has _not _had a dramatic decline, as far as our stocks are going." At this, he looked back at Noah. "We are still keeping our head very much above water, as far as our expenses, income, revenue goes..."

Wayne reached into the seat of the chair beside his and pulled out a slim black folder, which he opened to show the Sweets siblings. "Here's what I've come up with," he told them. "Usually there would be more, but, as you mentioned, our research department has been having a slight downsizing lately, and my main graph and record man has taken a short leave." He took a breath, frowning down at the figures on the table. "According to the head of staff at WayneTech, he needed a vacation. Unfortunately, the head of staff has been having... _family issues_ lately, so..." He sighed, staring at the papers in front of him. Then he looked back up at the Sweets siblings.

"Where were we?" he asked, smiling amiably. "Oh, that's right." He spread out the papers in front of them, letting each sibling look at a different chart. "These are the charts I've figured as to Wayne Enterprises' entire revenue for one year, as well as the revenue that Wayne Enterprises – as well as Sweets, Inc. – would see should we decide to merge our companies." He pointed to one, that Jenna held. "This is Wayne Enterprises, should it continue to stand alone," he said. "Judging by the figures thus far, we would stay at pretty much the same level, with perhaps some increase in revenue. This would be fine for me, seeing as that's what Wayne Enterprises has been doing for... as long as I can remember."

He paused, then pointed to the figure that Noah held. "_This,_ however," he said, "is a figure of the revenue we would have should Wayne Enterprises and Sweets, Inc. decide to merge to form Wayne & Sweets Enterprises." He grinned at them, business-like. "As you can see, both industries would see a twenty- to thirty-five percent increase in income within a year," he explained, sounding somewhat proud of himself. "This is an astounding number. So much so that... I'm surprised my father and your father didn't decide to merge companies before."

He leaned back in his chair again and indicated the two papers. "So," he said, "shall I draw up a contract?"

Noah inspected the charts carefully, ignoring most of Wayne's speech. He tuned back in at the mention of a twenty- to thirty-percent increase in revenue. They _were_ impressive numbers. For once, he was inclined to agree with Wayne; he couldn't fathom why his dad hadn't decided to approach Wayne Enterprises with a merger deal sooner.

He did some quick calculations and smiled behind the charts. Whatever else Noah Sweets was, he was good with numbers, and he could tell this deal would be a good one. No, a great one. Especially if his plans regarding Wayne Enterprises' R&D department worked out as he planned. Hell, he'd be willing to put up with working with Wayne for that.

Jenna grinned slightly. Even though she could be the less work-oriented of the two, she was as excited as her brother. They both looked up at the same time, eyed each other for a moment, and then she turned to Wayne with a smile. "Of course, Mr. Wayne," she said, sealing the deal.

Noah stood and straightened his suit. "Good meeting with you," he said curtly, before heading for the door. "I look forward to working together." His tone held absolutely no enthusiasm or honesty in it at all; he didn't look back as he exited the conference room. Jenna sighed, and turned to Wayne again as she stood.

"I'm very sorry for my brother's atrocious behavior," she told the man, again adjusting her dress straps. "He gets this way about...business." It wasn't _precisely_ true; Noah had told her many, many times of his dislike for Wayne. No need to tell him that, though. She moved around the table to the windows, closer to Wayne, and looked at the streets hundreds of feet below. "Anyways, I was wondering if you'd like to discuss business some more over dinner." She smiled and tilted her head. "Or something like that."

Wayne nodded as Noah confirmed his interest in the merger deal, and his gaze followed Noah as he made his way from the room. Wayne frowned slightly; Noah seemed to be only too eager to leave. If he had been so unenthused about the entire deal, Wayne could not help but wonder why he had been interested in investigating further into this merger deal. Then he looked up as Jenna got up from her seat, apologizing to him for her brother's behaviour. He smiled and shook his head.

"It's all right," he said, rocking back and forth slightly in his padded swivel-chair. "He seems very... _goal-oriented._ That can be good." He nodded to himself, watching as Jenna crossed to the windows, and turned in his chair, watching her as she stared out at the city of Gotham. At her offer of dinner, Wayne's brow furrowed slightly. He opened his mouth to speak, his eyes straying slightly as he thought about her offer, then closed his mouth. His eyes moved back to her and he nodded slowly.

"Dinner..." he said, still considering. It would be a good boost for business, as it would presumably patch up any disagreements between the Sweets and Wayne if he were to take an interest in the girl, but it would also give off the impression that Wayne Enterprises had only merged with Sweets, Inc. for the... _alternate benefits_. He frowned at this thought. Anyone who made claims like that would have to be desperate and immature, he told himself. This would do nothing but good, in the long run. He looked over at Jenna and smiled.

"Dinner," said Wayne, "sounds great."

Jenna smiled, satisfied, and went to the door. She twirled ballerina-style out of it, then paused and stuck her head back into the conference room. "The Aquarius, tonight, seven o'clock. Don't be late." She winked and flashed a dazzling grin, then turned and left.

She felt almost guilty about toying around with Wayne. After all, she had only minimal interest in the man, and that was due only to his looks. Besides, she was _really_ interested in another already. She just needed a bit of entertainment to keep her going for the time being. She sighed and stepped into her hot pink Mustang. Ah, well. Once she and the Bat started things going, she would just drop Wayne faster than a hot potato.

He was a businessman. He'd understand. She spared a glance up at Wayne Enterprises, then screeched away into city traffic.

"The Aquarius...?" Wayne had heard of the place, but he had never really seen fit to go there. It was an immensely high-end restaurant, where only the crème de la crème went to order small portions of very expensive food. It had never really struck Wayne as his kind of thing; he preferred having his meals made in the comfort of his own home, but he was not about to pass up the opportunity. Anyways, he reasoned, he had not been out and about in style in a while; people would start to wonder where the dashing billionaire had vanished to.

Wayne checked his Rolex. It was still before noon, so he had plenty of time to get himself together in time for the date. He looked down at his business-suit, smoothing the front of it as he thought of what he would wear to the occasion. Black went with everything, he supposed. That was always the simplest solution. He sighed as he looked out at the city. He finally had the time to relax and be Bruce Wayne for a bit, now that half of the city's crime problem was taken care of.

Then he frowned. He had not received notice from Gordon that the Joker had been apprehended the previous night. There was no doubt in his mind that he had certainly rendered the man incapacitated, what with that large, gaping wound he had dealt him. It was not fatal, he told himself, though perhaps Gordon had seen fit to take the Joker to the hospital before putting him behind bars. Then Wayne sighed, worried. The last time Gordon had taken the Joker to the hospital before putting him in jail, Napier had escaped and gone on another killing spree.

The thought was more than a little disconcerting, but Wayne shook his head, pushing the thought from his mind. "He's safely behind bars," he assured himself. He checked his watch again. "Gordon's just busy," he said. He looked out at the city again, then turned away from the window. He needed to go home and check up on things before his big night on the town. Perhaps Alfred would have some good news.


	46. Chapter FortyFive

For the first time in a few days, the sun through the cheap Venetian shades was what woke Jeanette. She opened her eyes, head resting on Jack's bare chest, and simply listened to him breathe for a little while. She turned her head on its side and pressed her lips to his shoulder. Then she shifted over to her own side of the bed and swung her legs over the side.

She almost didn't want to think about what had happened. She had just made her life so many different kinds of complicated it hurt to try to list them. And now she had to go and try to seduce Warren White, or something like that, because her father was going to kill Jeannie Rose and Jack if she didn't. Not to mention she _somehow_ had to get Jeannie Rose back to her mother. But she couldn't deny, even if she wanted to, that she'd loved every _second_ of it. She sighed and put her head in her hands, then finally stood up, put on some clothing, and went back to the living room.

Her blankets were still there, she realized as she circled the couch. Then she frowned. Her tank top was not. Where the hell could it have gone? She rummaged around the pillows for a minute, and checked under the couch, then stood up and looked at the master bedroom door. Could Jeannie Rose have found them? She sat down on the couch, shocked.

Then she immediately shook her head. No. Even if the girl had discovered the clothing, she wouldn't understand what it meant. She was too young for that sort of thing. So Jeanette went to the kitchen and got herself a glass of water and some Advil to calm her nerves.

Napier squeezed his eyes shut as the sunlight hit his eyelids, and moaned quietly as he stretched his arms out, reaching for Jeanette. Upon finding nothing there, he opened his eyes, frowning slightly at the empty spot in the bed beside him. He paused for a moment, then looked down at his chest, where the bandage still held from the night before, and ran a hand gently down Jeanette's handiwork. He could not remember much of the night before, but he did remember seeing Gerald, getting into a fight with Batman, getting hurt, and that he and Jeanette had...

He looked up then, at the doorway, and took a deep breath, clearing his senses. He did not have a hangover, he was glad to discover; that was always a good thing. He swung his legs out of bed and, not even bothering to get clothes on, he pulled a sheet off of the bed and wrapped it around his waist as he made his way into the front-room to find Jeanette. "Jeanette?" he called, pausing in the doorway before going into the next room. He smiled when he saw her in the kitchen, and leaned in the doorway, watching her.

"Good morning, Sunshine," he said, grinning at her. He moved into the kitchen, walking up behind her, and put his arms around her slender form, nuzzling his face into her neck, kissing her shoulder. "Did you sleep well?" he said quietly in her ear, brushing the side of her face with his nose and mouth. Then he chuckled lightly. "I guess the better question is, did you sleep _at all?_" He pulled her closer to him, resting his chin on her shoulder, and closed his eyes, letting out a quiet, satisfied moan.

"It's too early," he said, rocking her slightly. "You should come back to bed. Jeannie Rose isn't even up yet..."

"Daddy?"

Napier opened his eyes suddenly and saw Jeannie Rose standing before them, staring at the two of them with a quizzical, not entirely happy look. Jeannie Rose looked between Jeanette and Napier, frowning slightly. She wore his pinstripe purple pants, which she had rolled up to fit her better but which dragged comically on the floor, and Jeanette's tank top, which was much too big for her. The combination looked silly, but it somehow made her look even more adorable than usual. She folded her arms as she looked between them. "Daddy?" she asked, censorial. "Miss Jeanette? What are you doing?"

Napier let go of Jeanette, pulling the sheet tighter around his waist to make sure his daughter would not see anything he did not want her to see, and cleared his throat. "We, um..." He looked over at Jeanette, as if begging her to help him explain it. "We were just..." He looked back at his daughter, nervous, lost for words. "We were... _hugging,_" he said. He offered her a hopeful, though not entirely believable, smile. "Miss Jeanette and I are..." He swallowed, looking over at Jeanette again. "Good friends."

Jeannie Rose stared at him for a long moment, then looked at Jeanette again. Then she looked back at Napier. "You were_ kissing _her," she said, pointing to Miss Jeanette. Then her frown deepened, and a slightly mortified look came onto her face. "Are you _naked?!_" she exclaimed.

Napier blushed. "No!" he countered quickly, pulling the sheet tighter around his form. "I was, um... I was just... we were..." He looked back at Jeannie Rose, frantic. "It was only a friendly kiss!" he exclaimed. "I was... I... and I'm not..." He mouthed wordlessly, lost as to what to say. Then he looked away, defeated.

"And people wonder why I drink," he said with a heavy sigh, putting his head in his hand.

Jeanette snorted quietly and looked away, covering her mouth and trying hard not to laugh. Talk about awkward situations. When Jack had finished half-assing his explanation and she'd gotten herself under control, she picked Jeannie Rose up and kissed her cheek with a huge smacking noise. "People kiss each other to be friendly, sweets," she told the girl with a smile. "See?"

A glance at Jack's sheet apparel almost made her laugh again. "And, you know...some people are just _weird_," she whispered conspiratorially to the girl. She looked down at the girl's own clothing with a frown. "That'd explain where my _shirt_ went." She bounced her a bit, then turned back to the kitchen.

She looked at the empty counters, the fridge (which she knew was empty), and the pantry (also empty), then sighed. She'd have to take care of some more domestic matters before she could start working on White and Crane. "How about we go grocery shopping, okay?" she asked Jeannie Rose, settling her against a hip and double-checking the cabinets above the counter space. Nothing was inside, as she'd thought. She looked back at Jack hesitantly. "You should stay. Let that thing heal for a while." She nodded at the bandages on his chest, then met his eyes with a helpless expression, silently begging him not to say anything.

A sudden feeling of intense guilt swept over Jeanette. Kitty was still alive; she _knew_ that much. Even now, she was holding the product of Kitty and Jack's marriage in her arms. But she had ignored that completely, and now she'd have to deal with the consequences. She could just lie for a little while, but it couldn't last long.

Jeannie Rose stared at Jeanette, not really believing her, but she was becoming more convinced. Her Daddy's stuttering, half-assured explanations had done nothing for her, but she trusted Miss Jeanette. She put her arms around Jeanette's neck and laid her head on her shoulder. "Okay," she said quietly, only half-convinced. "If you say so, Miss Jeanette." She glanced over at her Daddy, still frowning slightly, then rested her head back on Jeanette's shoulder. Miss Jeanette knew what she was talking about. Her Daddy was just _weird._

But she already knew that.

She looked up when Jeanette began wandering, looking in all the cabinets and the refrigerator, and then looked at Jeanette quizzically when she saw that they were all empty. "What are we gonna eat?" she asked, but Jeanette had an idea before she could even finish the question. Jeannie Rose smiled at the thought of going shopping with Miss Jeanette. Anywhere she went with Miss Jeanette was always fun, because she was not timid and afraid of the people around her, like Jeannie Rose's mother. Miss Jeanette was outgoing and enjoyable, and Jeannie Rose treasured every moment she got to have with her.

"I wanna go shopping!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands with glee. Then she looked over at Napier with a kind of superior air, folding her arms. "Yeah," she agreed with Jeanette. "You stay here. You're not invited." She stuck out her tongue at him. "It's just a shopping trip for us girls," she said, putting her arms around Jeanette's neck again.

"Oh, darn," said Napier, sarcastic, leaning against a kitchen counter as he held the sheet firmly in place around his waist. "I so wanted to go _food-shopping_ with you."

"But you can't," said Jeannie Rose. "So ha."

Napier shrugged. "Well, damn," he said with a sigh. "I guess I'll just have to see you both when you get back." He smiled at Jeanette then. "Don't worry about me," he assured her. "I had _plenty_ of blood pumping through my body last night. If I didn't bleed to death _then,_ I sure as hell won't do it _now._" He grinned at her and winked.

"Now you two go shopping," he said. "And don't forget to have fun."

Jeanette grimaced theatrically at Jack's vulgar comments, praying that Jeannie Rose wasn't worldly enough yet to understand. Then she looked down at the girl with a grin. She lowered her to the ground and scooted her towards the bedroom. "Change," she said, eyeing the pants and tank top the girl still wore. "Then we can leave."

She turned back to Jack with another concerned look at his bandages. "It shouldn't take long; I'll pick up some things really quickly," she told him, tapping the counter restlessly. "There's some more gauze under the sink if you need it, I've got Advil in the bathroom for any pain, and..." She paused, took a breath, and pulled open the drawer nearest to the door, revealing her own hand gun and a spare. She took the first out, inspected it, then put it back; no need to take anything for a quick shopping trip during the day. "In case you need them," she added, nodding at the drawer. "Just stay quiet. I'll be back soon."

She finally paused and looked at his right wrist. She grinned and took his hand, slipping her hair tie from the night before off of it. "Thank _you_," she said, pulling her hair back again.

Jeannie Rose nodded, smiling, as soon as she was out of Jeanette's arms, and headed off towards her bedroom to change. She liked wearing Jeanette's and her Daddy's clothes; it made her feel older and important. She closed the door and slipped out of the pinstripe pants, which were much too big for her anyways, and then out of the tank top, laying them out on the bed to wear later. She stared at them for a moment, then picked up the pants and laid them by the door. Her Daddy would be needing those, she was sure.

Napier watched Jeanette's face as she spoke, her little mannerisms, like tapping her fingernails against the counter… a slight grin curved up one corner of his mouth. He barely heard what she was saying, but he nodded along with her, feigning paying attention. "Sure," he agreed mindlessly. "That's great." He was instantly snapped from his phallic-induced daydream when she opened a drawer and pulled out a gun. He took a surprised step back, but she was not interested in hurting him with the gun. He sighed in relief. Her killing him would have put a real damper on his morning.

Napier nodded in rapt attention as she explained about the guns. Then he grinned. "Well, hopefully no _bad guys_ will come lurking around while you're gone," he said with a chuckle, leaning on the kitchen counter towards her. "I don't know if I'd know what to do. Hell knows I'm such a _helpless_ little thing." He wet his lips, grinning sensually at her. "You might have to come back soon, so you can, you know… _protect_ me."

He moved a bit closer to her on the counter-top, staring intently at her. "Just don't get yourself_ kidnapped_ while you're gone, okay?" he said jokingly. "I don't know if I'd be able to save you." His grin widened, accentuating his scars.

Jeannie Rose moved back to the bed and picked up her little pink dress, slipping it on and checking to make sure it was still fitting well and had not gotten too dirty. Then, smiling, she went back to the door, opened it, and went out, dragging Napier's slacks behind her. "I'm ready, Miss Jeanette!" she called. She glanced over at Napier, then held out the pants to him. "Here," she said, "you need these more than I do."

Napier looked down in surprise as he found his pants being shoved at him, and took them somewhat ineptly, a bit flustered. He had not even noticed that his pants had been missing from the couch area, but it was a little unnerving to have them handed to him by his young daughter. He looked up at Jeanette for a moment, confused, then back at Jeannie Rose with a forced smile. "Thanks," he drawled awkwardly.

Jeannie Rose giggled as he took the slacks, then held up her arms for Jeanette to pick her up again. "Let's go shopping, Miss Jeanette!" she exclaimed, beaming. "A shopping trip, just for us girls!"

"I'll do my best," Jeanette replied, leaning over to pick up Jeannie Rose. She settled the girl once more on her hip, then glanced back up at Jack. "As always." A slow grin spread across her face, then she turned to leave with one last regretful look over her shoulder.

Once she'd hailed a cab, she thought long and hard about her situation. At this point, fessing up to Jack wouldn't work. He was dead set on the idea that Kitty was dead; whatever friend of his had told him of her death must have been a very convincing person. And she didn't really _want_ to, anyways. So now she could either pretend that Kitty had never existed, or return Jeannie Rose to the woman and get her away from Crane quietly and secretly.

She sighed. The first wouldn't work. She kept remembering those scared, dull blue eyes looking into hers and saying, "I _do_ trust you." She felt like scum, and couldn't look at Jeannie Rose as she made her decision and said, "Hey, sweetheart? Can you do me a big favor?" She took a breath, then forced a smile and looked down at the little girl. "Your daddy's a little sad right now about your mommy, so it probably wouldn't be good to mention her to him. Okay?"

Jeannie Rose stared out the window of the cab, watching the dreary scenery pass by, but looked up as soon as Jeanette spoke to her. She nodded along, listening to what Jeanette had to say, then smiled agreeably. "Okay, Miss Jeanette," she said. She turned and looked back out the window, the smile fading slightly from her face as she thought about it. Then she looked over at Jeanette again. "Miss Jeanette," she said, "my... my mommie's gonna be okay, right?"

She leaned her head against Jeanette's side, sighing as she looked down at her little pink shoes. "I love you, Miss Jeanette," she said, beginning to play with the edge of her dress. "But you're not my mommie." Her dark eyes returned to Jeanette's face, then. "I'm really worried about my mommie," she told Jeanette. "I don't want anything to happen to her... I don't want her to get hurt..." She bit her lip, looking back down at the hem of her dress as her eyes began to fill with tears.

"I want my mommie back, Miss Jeanette," she said, a tear trailing down her pink cheek. "I'm just scared something happened to her... an' Daddy doesn't like to talk about her..." She shook her head, wiping away her tears. "An' now you don't want me to talk to Daddy about her, an'... an'..." She sniffled, looking back at Jeanette. "I'm afraid everybody's gonna forget about her, Miss Jeanette," she said. "Then I'll never see my mommie again..."

Jeannie Rose tried to stop the tears from coming, but, unable to, she buried her face in Jeanette's side as she began to cry again. "I just want my mommie back," she choked.

Jeanette looked down at Jeannie Rose for a moment helplessly. She glanced up to find the cab driver's eyes locked on her in the rear-view mirror; he quickly averted them, and she scowled. Then she pulled the girl up onto her lap and looked out the window.

"We're going to _get_ her back, sweetie," she said, rocking the girl slightly in her arms. "And nobody's going to forget about her." Her throat choked up, and she forced out the last words, "I promise." She had never felt more guilty in her _life_; she'd probably ruined Jeannie Rose's childhood completely, and that was something she'd have to deal with for the rest of her life. She used the sleeve of her jacket to wipe away the tears on the girl's face and put her chin on the top of her curly-haired head.

"Everything's going to work out just fine. Really," she added soothingly. "Don't cry. It's all right."

Jeannie Rose sniffled, nodding along with Jeanette's reassuring words, and wiped at the tears on her face. "If you really think so," she said, looking back up at Jeanette. "I trust you, Miss Jeanette. You're gonna get my mommie back." She sniffled again, then put on a brave smile. "We're gonna go shopping now, right?" she asked. "A shopping trip, just for us girls!" She looked up towards the cab driver. "We're going on a special shopping trip," she told him.

The cabbie nodded. "Sounds like fun," he answered.

Jeannie Rose giggled, turning back to Jeanette, and snuggled up close to her. "Miss Jeanette," she said, "when we get my mommie back, will I still be able to see you an' go on shopping trips with you an' stuff?" She looked up at Jeanette then. "Can I talk to my daddy about my mommie once we get her back?" she asked. "If she's back, then he shouldn't be sad about her anymore... right?" She took Jeanette's hand in her two smaller ones and began to play with it.

"I'm glad my daddy has a good friend like you, Miss Jeanette," she told Jeanette. "He doesn't seem like he has many friends." Her dark eyes returned to Jeanette's face. "Are you my mommie's friend, too, Miss Jeanette?" she asked. "'Cause my mommie doesn't have many friends, neither. An' you're such good friends with my daddy... kissin' and stuff..." She giggled. "My daddy's a weirdo," she said, scrunching up her nose with laughter as she went back to playing with Jeanette's hand.

That kid bounced from tears to giggles too quickly for Jeanette to follow. She sighed and leaned back against her seat with an embarrassed smile for the grinning cabby. Kids. More unpredictable than adults, in most cases, and with twice the energy.

She was beginning to remember bits and pieces of this from Italy.

She looked down at the girl clinging to her side and frowned. "Well, I'd imagine your mommy would want to keep you pretty close after all this, don't you think?" she suggested, hoping the five-year-old would follow her logic. In case she didn't, Jeanette added, "I'm not sure, sweets." _For more reason than one,_ she added to herself.

Maybe now wasn't the time to make a decision about what she would do after she found Kitty. She ought to just wait and see. "I don't know at all," she said quietly.


	47. Chapter FortySix

_She was walking along the corridor of Arkham Asylum that she'd gone through to get to that room, that awful room where all of this had started. Something was behind her; there were footsteps, light, but defined. She moved more quickly, passing rooms in a rush, always checking the windows on the doors, not entirely sure what she was looking for. All the while, there were those inevitable footsteps, clicking jauntily on the cool tile floor of the building._

_Finally, she was running, running hard, flying past doors and windows and blank, empty faces of people wearing orange jumpsuits, until she hit the end of the hallway, where there was an door cracked open. She tentatively reached out and swung the door wide; inside was a chair, much like the one she'd seen in his room, but somehow she knew this wasn't his room. This had been her father's room, the one the old asylum must have transferred him to after she moved to Gotham. The straight jacket was empty._

_The footsteps stopped behind her. She heard a breath._

_"Fearing nothing would make one… superhuman. Do you consider yourself to be superhuman?"_

Maria woke from the dream calmly, opening her eyes slowly to allow them to adjust to the pale light. She sat up and was surprised to find herself in a hospital bed. Gerald sat near the wall, asleep. She watched him for a moment, then drew her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them.

No. She was not superhuman. Crane had been right about that much, those many days ago. But one did not need to be superhuman to overcome fear; one simply needed the right mindset. One needed to base his or her actions on _logic_, not flighty human emotion. She breathed out, the panic slowly subsiding as it always had, those many times before when she was younger and she'd been forced to _think_ herself out of an attack.

Finally, she sat up. She hated to wake Gerald (he looked positively exhausted), but she needed to talk to someone. She quietly called, "Gerald?"

Gerald jerked awake when he heard someone quietly calling his name, and he looked up, his blue eyes bleary. He did not recognize the room he was in, at first, and then realization dawned on him as he remembered the events of the previous night. He had taken Maria to the hospital after she had fainted... and she had fainted because her father had wanted to kill her. Her father, one of Gerald's own son's associates. He frowned and tried to suppress a shudder at the thought of his own flesh and blood meddling in the affairs of and associating themselves with murderers.

He looked over at Maria then, stared at her for a moment, and then smiled warmly at her. "Good morning, Maria," he said, sitting upright in his chair. "I'm glad to see you're doing all right... I was so worried about you last night, when you fainted like that..." His smile faded slightly, but he still kept up his amiable, fatherly air. He did not want to worry Maria more than she was already worried, even if there was certainly something for both of them to be worried about; both had someone after their blood, and neither knew what to do about it.

"I hope you don't mind me spending the night here," he told her, rubbing his hands together slightly. "I just... didn't know where else to go." It had been only through some kind of miracle that the staff of Gotham General had let him stay in the first place; usually they did not allow anyone to stay beyond visiting hours, but he had seemed so helpless and scared that they had given in to his pleading and allowed him to stay the night in Maria's room. He was sure that most of them probably thought that he was her father. It was a strange irony, but he was not about to correct them. If being her father was the only way he would be able to stay in a safe place for the night, then he was only too happy to take on the title.

After all, from what he had seen, her _real_ father was not really deserving of it.

He looked up at her again. "Well, I don't know about _you,_" he said, putting his hands on his knees to stop himself from rubbing them together nervously, "but I'm starving." He smiled at her. "Would you like me to call in the nurse to get you some breakfast?" he asked. "I can go down to the cafeteria and grab something, and come right back..." He folded his hands together in his lap and sighed then, staring at her for a long moment.

"Then," he said, his tone serious, "we have to talk."

A long, deep sigh made its way out of Maria's mouth; she was still breathing slowly to keep her panic down. "I'm perfectly fine," she told Gerald with an almost reassuring smile. She shrugged slightly. "It happens. Sorry to worry you." Her tone was flat and completely devoid of emotion. She felt like a dam about to break; if anything got out, even the smallest thing, it would open the floodgates and she'd lose it.

She looked down at the sheets and shook her head. "No, I'm fine, thanks," she replied. She wasn't in the _mood_ for food. She wasn't in the mood for _anything_. She just wanted to lay here and not think, not deal with everything that was going on. She wanted to go back to her apartment and snuggle up on the couch with a cup of hot chocolate and Max...

Shit.

She shoved her fists into her eyes to stop the tears before they started. She would _not_ be a whiny little weakling about this. She would _not_. But it was too late; her shoulders shook slightly as she sobbed into her hands. She turned away from Gerald. If she was lucky, he'd just leave.

This was humiliating.

Gerald tapped the tips of his fingers together nervously as he watched Maria, then looked away, pursing his lips uncomfortably. "I, um..." he said quietly, not really sure what to say. He had never been good with people crying; this made two people in two days who had broken down in front of him. He supposed it was a good thing, since people only really cried around people they trusted. He looked back up at Maria, then put his hands on the armrests of his chair, getting up from his seat.

"Well, I, um..." he said, unsure of what to do. "I'm going to... leave you alone for a bit." He nodded, as if reassuring himself that he was doing the right thing, and got up from his seat, moving to the door. He glanced back at Maria once when he reached the door, then turned away. He would go to the cafeteria, he supposed, where he said he would go. Truthfully, he was not very hungry at the moment. He had gotten so used to being the man that Gotham forgot that he did not know what to do, now that all this excitement was happening to him.

Gerald moved into the cafeteria, and looked around at everyone gathered there. There were quite a few people in wheelchairs, some being fed by family members. There was a new mother at one of the tables. She looked lonely, sitting there, holding her tiny infant. No one sat by her. Gerald sighed, watching her. She reminded him of Karen, with her dark hair, and holding her new child with such a baleful expression. He stared at her for a long moment, just watching her.

He had to go back to Jonathan, he decided. It was only right for him to return to his own son. After all, he was the only family Jonathan had. Maybe he could convince Jonathan to change. He folded his arms, considering this. He doubted it, but it was a possibility, nonetheless. He looked away from the young mother, down at his shoes, leaning against the wall. He wanted so badly to have nothing to do with his wicked son, but the thought of Karen, of her being alone, like the young mother in the cafeteria... and then there was Gerald's grandchild to think about.

Gerald looked up at this thought. There was no choice. He had to go back to Jonathan, as much as he hated to do it. He had to do it, for his grandchild's sake.

With that thought in mind, he turned away from the cafeteria. Hopefully by now Maria would have stopped crying, so he could have his important talk with her. Somehow, he knew that Maria would understand what he was saying. If not...

He shook his head, deciding not to think about it, then started back towards Maria's room.

Maria had fully collected herself when Gerald re-entered the room with his food. She was sitting up in bed, back resting against the pillows she'd propped against the bed frame, silently inspecting a Home and Garden magazine that had been left on her bedside table. She looked up immediately, with dry and still somewhat red eyes, and didn't smile.

She'd adopted a new temporary philosophy; cut most emotion out, except what is necessary, and you can't get attached to things. Attachments were what caused fear, after all. Ideally, if one was able to set them aside, one would be "immune", so to speak, to the controlling power of fear.

Fine, so it might not be the most rational thing she'd ever decided but, hell, it would keep her sane.

She set aside the magazine and folded her legs Indian-style. "I'm sorry," she said first, frowning. That was all the explanation she was going to give for her breakdown minutes before. It would _not_ be happening again. And, besides, it wasn't like Gerald cared. He was just another human being, an apathetic homo sapiens sapiens.

"So what was it you wanted to talk about?" she asked.

Gerald sat down, balancing a small bowl of soup in one hand as he lowered himself into his seat. Then his blue eyes returned to Maria's face. She seemed to be doing better than before, though she did seem upset, now, as opposed to just being sad, earlier. He frowned slightly as he stared at her, then cleared his throat and began to slowly stir the soup in the little bowl.

"Maria," he said, unsure of how to word his dilemma. "You, um... you know, of course, that Jonathan Crane is my son..." He turned his head slightly as he stirred the soup a bit more. "And you know that he... found me," he went on, his speech becoming faltered and slower as he struggled to find the words to say. He glanced up at Maria, his brow furrowing. "And he... wants to hurt you," he said, even slower. His eyes went back to his soup, and he was silent for a moment. Then he set the soup down on the floor and looked up at Maria, folding his hands in his lap.

"Look, Maria," he said, quicker, sounding somewhat scared, "my son is a bad person. I know you don't need me to tell you this, but..." He looked away for a moment, then back at her. "He has a woman that I'm sure is not staying with him of her own free will," he said. "And he's associating himself with murderers and... insane people." His frown deepened. "The problem is," he said, "I... can't tell anyone."

He paused, then let out a heavy sigh. "He's got me pinned, Maria," he said. "This woman he's with, she... he got her pregnant, and... well... that's my grandchild." He looked up at Maria, helpless. "He's holding that over my head," he explained. "If I make one false move, I'll never see the child. If I tell anyone, he'll kill the woman. So I have to go back to him, so he... won't do anything... _rash._" He folded his arms, uncomfortable.

"If you decide to go to the police with this," he said, "you didn't hear it from me."

Maria watched Gerald closely. He certainly seemed different now than he'd been around the AA group. And he'd only been this way after seeing his son. Maybe Crane - Jonathan, that was - was just one of those sorts of people that affected you. _Changed_ you, more like.

Fuck that. He was just some immature, childish, self-proclaimed "genius" that liked to toy with other people.

"If he _does_ want to, as you said, 'hurt me'," she replied first, almost sneering, "I'm sure it's just a passing fancy that he'll forget about in a day. I think I'll be safe." Then she frowned at the rest of his explanation. "But I'm not sure _you'll_ be."

She pushed her sheets away; she had been dressed, for some reason, in pale blue hospital scrubs. Apparently, the nurses had thought her clothing had something to do with her panic attack. She scowled and adjusted her top, then stuck her nail in her mouth and leaned forward. "Everything he said to me during our interviews regarding his past...all of it hinted at some deep-set issues with his father figure." She paused. "You, that is. If you go back, you _do_ realize that, even if he does nothing rash regarding this grandchild of yours...he might do something rash to _you_." She pulled her hand away from her mouth, and placed both on her knees. "Doesn't seem sensical to put yourself in that sort of position for someone you don't even know."

Then she paused. This whole story about the woman seemed a little far-fetched. Crane wasn't one to form attachments to people; getting someone pregnant seemed like a pretty big attachment. "Any idea who this woman of his is?" she asked.

Gerald folded his hands together between his knees, staring at them, as Maria spoke to him. She made sense, he had to admit; everything she said was perfectly true. He was really the one in danger of being hurt by his son, not her. Though there was that other man, the one who had pointed the gun at her, and had been the one who had been interested in having him call her back to the AA building in the first place.

"But his associates..." Gerald replied, only half-heartedly. "That one man... your father..." He shook his head. "He won't give up until you're dead, Maria," he said. "I saw the look in his eyes... he's not right in the head." He tapped his own temple, as if to demonstrate. "Jonathan... he wasn't the one who wanted you to come back last night. It was your father, he..." Gerald shook his head. "He wants to kill you, Maria. I don't know _why _anyone would want to kill their own child..."

"I'll _live_ with it." Maria's reply was angry and final. They would _not_ be discussing this. She'd discussed the fuck out of it with psychologists and analysts for years, and what good had that done her? Not a damn thing. She didn't need some over-concerned stranger digging into her past again. Then she realized the irony of what she'd said, and snickered.

Then the laughter died away quickly and she scowled. He was just being _stupid_, in her very professional opinion. She really wanted to tell him to just get a backbone; fortunately, she still had some tact left. So her shoulders lifted and fell in the tiniest shrug, whether from indifference or sympathy, even she didn't know.

Gerald paused again, then sighed. "But you're right," he said. "I have much more to fear from going back to Jonathan than you do from... just existing." He put his hands on his knees, thinking. "The only thing is... I can't just _leave._" He looked back up at her, his eyes sad. "I feel compelled to stay. I feel... like... if I stick around and help him with his child, then... I don't have to feel responsible for not being able to be there for... Karen." He looked away, folding his hands together again. "It wasn't my fault," he said. "But not a day passes that I don't feel responsible for it."

He stared at a spot on the floor for a long moment, then looked back at Maria. "She..." He paused, thinking. Now that Maria mentioned it, the woman had seemed somewhat familiar... he tried to think of where he had seen her before, but nothing was coming to mind. "I... _think_ I know her," he said, his eyes straying as he sought to think of where he had seen the woman before his son had introduced her as 'the mother of his child'. Jonathan had not said a name, probably because he had not considered her name to be important... he viewed the world in such a detached way that he probably thought names held far too much leverage.

"She's... small," Gerald said, looking back at Maria and indicating slightly. "Very... _timid._ She's got... straight, brown hair, and..." He paused, trying to remember details about the woman. "Bluish eyes," he added, his description somewhat halting as he tried to think of how the young woman had looked. "And... very pink lips." He looked back at Maria again. "She looked... so scared," he added. "And... strangely familiar." He put a hand to his head as he tried to place where he had seen the woman before.

"She has the quietest voice," he said, shaking his head. "And she... seems very confused." Finally he gave up, his eyes returning to Maria. "I don't suppose _you _know who she is, do you?" he asked, hopeless.

"Call me crazy," she said, then paused. "Or, rather, don't. But that sounds an awful lot like the wife of Jack Nap...sorry." She interrupted herself, frowning. "You wouldn't know him by that name. Heard of the Joker? That big clown who's been killing people around the city for a while? I got the chance to meet him once, and he told me about a woman named Kitty that he'd been married to before...well, before he became the Joker." There she paused. "But she's...that just wouldn't work. Sure, I think she's _with_ 'im, but she doesn't have anything particularly special about her." She scratched her cheek thoughtfully. "He just doesn't seem like the type," she added absentmindedly.

"Must just be a coincidence." Sure, they looked alike, maybe even eerily so, but that didn't mean that Kitty and this mystery woman were the same person. "She's nothing special, like I said."

Gerald looked up at her, thoughtful. "I know Jack," he said, his voice sad. "I knew him before he was the Joker. It's such a pity…" He looked away, leaning forward slightly, folding his hands between his knees as he shook his head sadly. "He was such a good young man… it's a pity that so much misfortune had to befall him." He stared at the wall for a long moment, then looked up at Maria. "But I don't suppose you know about all that, do you?" he asked. "Or maybe you do… some do."

He sighed, leaning back in his chair again, and folded his arms across his chest as he considered Maria. "You know," he said slowly, frowning slightly as he thought about it. His blue eyes began to stray as he considered her suggestion. "You know, you're absolutely right. I… I knew Kitty and Jack, back before… the tragedy occurred five years ago." He scratched behind one ear thoughtfully. "I thought Kitty left Gotham," he admitted, shrugging slightly. "But this woman…"

Gerald paused, considering the weight of what she had told him. "I'm almost certain, now you mention it…" He paused again, then nodded slowly. "That woman is Kitty Napier," he said in a strange, almost horrified voice.

Gerald looked somewhat mortified for a moment, staring at the wall somewhere past Maria. Then he put his head in his hand. "Oh, my god," he said quietly. He shook his head in shock. "Oh, my god," he repeated. He looked up at Maria. "Jonathan kidnapped Jack's wife," he said, his voice hollow with shock. "And he got her pregnant." He stared at Maria, hopeless, for a long moment. Then he got up out of his chair.

"I have to help her," he said. Then he turned back to Maria. "But what can I do?" he asked, helpless. He sat back down in the chair and put his head in his hands again. "I don't know what to do," he moaned.

Maria scratched her scalp and scowled. Damn, he was right. His description was too close to not be Kitty. She sighed and swung her legs over the side of the bed. "Get the police involved," she said, somewhat reluctantly. However little respect she held for the GCPD and its shabby - at best! - work, now was not the time to let personal doubts get in the way. Kitty was in serious trouble. "Get back on the inside, find out where they are, and call the cops on them." She considered the scrubs she wore for a moment, then finally noticed her own clothing sitting on a nearby table. As she walked over to it, she added, "If you want to do something about it, _do_ it."

She grabbed her jeans and top, then headed for the bathroom joined to the room. "I've got Gordon...Officer Gordon's work number," she told Gerald over her shoulder. "You can call while I'm changing, if you want. Maybe they didn't leave the AA building yet." With that, she disappeared into the bathroom.

He was doing it again. He was backing out, being hesitant about the situation just because it had something to do with his son. Maria could have screamed in frustration as she yanked her top over her head. She could understand that it was a personal issue, so that might be a hindrance for any action Gerald would take. But when someone was in as much trouble as Kitty was (pregnant - she still couldn't wrap her mind around that little fact), there wasn't time for hesitation. They had to get help. _Now._

"But –" Gerald began to say, lifting his head and holding a hand out towards her, but she was gone before he could finish. He sighed, putting his head in his hands again, and moaned. He had gotten so used to not having to do things this important, so used to not putting himself on the line for someone in a time of extreme danger, that he had grown almost spineless. Now that the time had come around for him to do something for someone else who really needed it, he was next to useless.

He looked up, and his eyes fell on Maria's purse. Gordon's number was in there, and all he had to do was get it out, call the GPD, and tell them his son's location. At that thought, he cringed away again. He could not do that, not to his own son. No matter what Jonathan had done, he was still his son. He remembered what he had told Napier the night previous: no matter what our children turn out to be, it is still our responsibility, as their parent, to love them. It was growing harder and harder for Gerald to find some semblance of a reason to love Jonathan, however.

And then he thought of Kitty. She did not want to be there, she did not want to be in the situation she now found herself. It was not her fault she had gotten involved in all of this; she was just a helpless bystander who had somehow gotten roped into the madness – and then hurt. It was almost too much to bear, to think about poor, helpless Kitty, being dragged around by a man she detested, carrying his child, and unable to do anything about it. Gerald stood from his chair.

Even if Kitty was unable to do anything about it, he was not, and it was his responsibility to help.

Gerald crossed to Maria's purse and rummaged around a bit until he found her cell phone. He flipped it open, went through the list of saved numbers until he found Officer Gordon's office number, then pulled a pen from her purse and jotted the number down on the back of his hand. Then he snapped her phone shut and put it back in her purse, zipping the purse up. He turned away, knowing Maria would understand if he was not there when she emerged from getting dressed.

He had work to do.

Maria emerged from the bathroom still putting up her hair. She took one look at her purse, which had been moved from the nightstand to the bed, and at her phone, which now sat near the top of the bag. Then she grinned, satisfied.

Mr. Spineless had finally worked up the courage to _do_ something. And that was good enough for her.

Just in case _something_ went wrong, she crossed to the bed and picked up her phone herself. She searched through the contact list until she hit "Gordon, Officer James". She pressed the Talk button and, when no one answered, left a curt but polite message. "Hey, Gordon, it's should be expecting a call today from someone named Gerald Crane." She paused as she picked up her purse and opened the door of the hospital room, and tucked the phone between her shoulder and ear. "It's legitimate; I've checked the source out myself. And this should be the end to the Crane case. Call me back if you need anything."

With that, she snapped the phone shut, smiling. Her mood had _greatly_ improved from this morning. All that was left to do was find Napier, and it seemed she already had a lead on that front, as well. She flipped through her contacts once more.

Hopefully, Thomas Hale wouldn't be busy later that evening.


	48. Chapter FortySeven

Crane had instructed Goodhart and Flicker to remain outside the Iceberg Lounge when he went inside. Too much of an entourage would draw attention to himself, and attention was the last thing he had wanted. The only one he took inside with him was Kitty. She was too important now, he said. He did not want her out of his sight.

He made his way to the bar, where Maggie was busy cleaning a dirty glass, and cleared his throat, getting her attention. Maggie looked up at him, seeming slightly put off, but offered him a polite, inviting smile anyways. "Can I get you something?" she asked, offering the now-clean glass.

Crane shook his head. "No, thank you," he answered, giving her a cold, false smile, "I'm actually looking for the man who runs this place. I hear he's rather affluent in the, uh... weapons department."

"Oh," said Maggie, nodding and lowering her voice. "You're looking for Os."

"That would be him," said Crane, pointing at her as if he were familiar with the name. "So, uh... where can I find him?"

"Oh, he should be around here somewhere, Os isn't usually too far off at any ti..." Her voice trailed off as she looked over at Kitty, who was staring balefully at a spot on the counter. Maggie frowned slightly in concern. "Are you okay, dear?" she asked.

Kitty looked up in surprise at being addressed, staring at Maggie like a deer in the headlights. "What?" she asked.

"Are you all right?" Maggie asked, sounding worried. "You look ill. Are you okay? Do you need some medicine? I think I have some Advil back here somewhere..."

"She's fine," Crane cut over Maggie's offer, pulling Kitty away from the counter. He offered Maggie a tight, patient smile. "We're just... going to go find Os now," he said, slower. Then he turned away, dragging Kitty with him.

"You will not breathe a_ word_ while we are here," Crane hissed to Kitty once they were out of earshot of Maggie. "Do you understand me? Not a word. I don't want you blowing my cover."

"I didn't say anything..." Kitty tried to defend herself, but Crane's grip on her arm increased.

"I don't care," he said sharply. "Don't say a word, or I'll be forced to hurt you." He looked up then, and a bitter smile came to his face. "Excuse me," he said, tapping a well-dressed gentleman on the shoulder, "are you Os?"

Cobblepot turned to see Crane grinning at him, and he had to give himself time for a double-take. He had seen Crane's face on posters in more reputable places, but he never imagined that he would come face-to-face with the apparent psychopath. At closer range, he could see the madness lurking just behind Crane's crystalline eyes. Then his gaze turned to the woman standing with Crane. He did not know who she was, but he could tell that she was not there of her own free will. He hesitated a moment, then returned the polite smile. "Why, yes," he said. "That would be me."

Crane grinned. "Great," he said, feigning enthusiasm. Then he lowered his voice a bit. "I'm actually looking for a handgun. Do you think you could help me...?"

"Of course," said Cobblepot, nodding. "You've come to the right place. Follow me." He started towards the back room, motioning for them to come along. Crane gave Kitty a warning glance, then followed Cobblepot, dragging Kitty with him. Cobblepot closed the door of the back room once everyone was inside, then turned on the light. Crane looked around at all the boxes, wondering what Cobblepot kept in all of them – and how much they were worth. One look at Cobblepot told him that this man lived well, but he was not about to question him when he needed his full cooperation.

"So," said Cobblepot, turning to Crane and folding his hands together, his cigarette smoking between the fingers of one of them, "what can I do for you, my fine man?"

"I need a handgun," said Crane.

"A handgun, I can do," said Cobblepot, nodding. He turned away from Crane and moved to one of the boxes, opening it and looking inside. Crane tried to look over his shoulder to see what was inside, but Cobblepot had closed the box before Crane had a chance. Cobblepot turned back to Crane, holding a good-looking handgun out to him. Crane took it in his hands, inspecting it. Cobblepot looked on, putting his low-burning cigarette in his mouth as he watched Crane looking over the gun.

"Do you like it?" he asked.

Crane let out a heavy sigh. "It'll do," he said disdainfully. Then he looked back up at Cobblepot. "How much?" he asked.

Cobblepot considered the gun in Crane's hand, then shrugged, exhaling smoke. "How about two hundred?" he suggested.

Crane nodded slowly, looking at the gun. Then he looked up at Cobblepot. "How about one hundred," he said, "and I don't kill you?"

Cobblepot nodded, considering this counter-offer. "Sounds reasonable to me," he said, putting his cigarette carelessly back in his mouth.

Crane grinned bitterly as he pulled his wallet out of his pocket and withdrew a crisp hundred-dollar bill from it, handing it over to Cobblepot. Cobblepot nodded, taking the bill, and stuffed it into his pocket. He took his cigarette from his mouth and let the smoke seep from his lips, trying to look as nonchalant as possible, but he could not help his attention returning to Kitty once again. She was staring at him, and it was beginning to be slightly unnerving. Cobblepot looked back at Crane, who was staring at the handgun he had just purchased with a kind of detached superiority, and cleared his throat.

"You know," he said slowly, holding the cigarette ready to put back in his mouth, "you're the second person to ask for a handgun in the past week. I don't usually get a lot of requests for handguns." His arm dropped back to his side, the cigarette smouldering in his hand, half-forgotten. He had to be careful when working with someone like this man. "Usually I get requests for large weaponry. You know... _hard to find_ things. Things that... only _crazy people_ would think about using."

At this, both Crane and Kitty looked up. Crane frowned slightly. "Crazy people?" he asked. "What _kind_ of crazy people?"

"Oh, the usual," said Cobblepot airily. "But that's not what's really interesting. What's really interesting is that one of my regulars seems to know something about someone I think you might find interesting..." He put the cigarette back in his mouth, dragging out the moment, then blew out a stream of smoke. "Ever heard of the Joker?" he asked.

Crane's expression grew even more interested. "I may have," he answered, just as elusive. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh," said Cobblepot with a careless shrug, "I thought everyone would've heard of that nut." He glanced down at his dwindling cigarette. "Damn," he said with a sigh. Then he looked back up at the two of them. "Not that I get myself muddled in the affairs of others," he said carelessly. "But she did come in the other day with a child. I asked her about it, and she said that she knew the child's father... that she was taking care of the child for a friend, who had apparently gone missing."

Kitty gasped, but Crane shot her a warning glance and she instantly looked away. Then Crane looked back at Cobblepot, seeming only mildly interested. "That has nothing to do with the Joker," he said, playing dumb.

Cobblepot stared at him. He knew that this man was smart, but he was also smart, and he was not about to play into the hands of someone who seemed as downright wrong in the head as this individual. He shrugged. "No," he said with a sigh. "It just seemed interesting." He flicked the ashes from his now-dead cigarette and looked over at Kitty. "You seem terribly shy, my dear," he said with a reassuring smile. "What's your name?"

Kitty paused, considering whether or not to answer, then opened her mouth to reply when Crane cut over her, "Names are not important. Our business is done here." He turned, taking Kitty by the arm, and started out of the back room. Kitty turned her head, giving Cobblepot a frantic, pleading look, and mouthed the word, _Kitty._ Then they were gone.

Cobblepot stared after the two of them for a long moment, his brow furrowing. "Kitty...?" he mused to himself. He glanced down at his dead cigarette, then back up at the doorway. "Kitty," he said again, thoughtfully. Then, with a shrug, he started back into the front room of the Lounge. Maggie was cleaning the bar-top when he got there, and he took a seat at the bar, resting his elbows on the shining counter-top as he tossed his cigarette butt into one of the ashtrays that lined the bar. Maggie looked up as soon as he sat down.

"So," she said. "He seemed charming."

"That gun hasn't been cleaned since I bought it," said Cobblepot icily. "I hope he blows his hand off with it." He considered the burnt-out cigarette stub in the ashtray. Then he looked up at Maggie. "Maggie," he said, looking up at her. "Does the name, Kitty, ring any bells?"

Maggie looked up at him then, seeming surprised. "Kitty?" she asked. She thought about it for a moment. Then she looked back at him. "Kitty was the name of that big guy's dead wife," she said. She started to clean the counter again. "He was talking about her to Jeanette the other day."

"That big guy?" Cobblepot asked, surprised. "You don't mean the Joker, I hope?"

"That's the one," said Maggie, nodding. "The one Jeanette's all enamoured with. He was talking about his dead wife the other day, and –"

"And you're _sure _her name was Kitty?" asked Cobblepot, suddenly very interested.

Maggie nodded assuredly. "Yeah," she said, "I'm real good with names." She started to clean the countertop again, then stopped. Then Maggie looked up at Cobblepot again and frowned. "Why the sudden interest, Os?" she asked.

Cobblepot took a deep breath. "Because, Maggie, dear," he said, "I believe Kitty might not be dead at all."

Maggie dropped her cloth onto the counter, her mouth hanging slightly open. "What?" she asked.

Cobblepot nodded. "I believe Kitty might still be alive," he said. "And I believe she might be in grave danger." He looked over towards the doorway of the Lounge, where Crane and Kitty, he was sure, had left only minutes ago, and heaved a deep breath. "And so may Jeanette and the child," he said, worried.

. . .

Napier stepped out of the bathroom in a flourish of steam, pulling the towel from his head and shaking out his clean hair, then flipping it back and heaving a contented sigh. The warm water felt so good on his skin. It was almost as if the cleansing that came along with the shower was what kept him human, as if every time he stood under the warm stream, it washed away all traces of any other life he might have had outside that of Jack Napier, the slowly recovering alcoholic and single father.

He ran a hand through his drying hair, moaning in pleasure and sparing a glance towards the thermometer as he passed. Jeanette always kept the apartment at a nice temperature, so he did not have to worry about being cold once he stepped out of the shower. He pulled his towel off of his waist and tossed it carelessly onto the back of the couch, stretching as he made his way into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and looked inside. His attention was at first drawn to a cooling bottle of liquor, and he began to reach for it, then drew back his hand, reconsidering. He looked over to the door of the refrigerator, and, seeing a can of soda sitting there, picked it up instead and closed the refrigerator.

Napier turned away, cracking open the can with a self-satisfied grin, and took a deep, refreshing drink. He let out a deep breath, looking down at the can, and, nodding in approval, he turned away from the kitchen and started towards the bedroom. He had seen that the closet had been stuffed with clothing when he had gone in there the previous night, and now that he was home alone, it gave him the perfect opportunity to see if his own clothes had been taken along. He did not expect Jeanette to have brought them, but she was always full of surprises.

Napier opened the closet, nursing his can of soda, and was pleasantly surprised to find that, amongst Jeanette's own plethora of clothing, his own assortment of outfits had survived the move. He pulled the business suit out of the closet, inspected it with a satisfied nod, and then put it back. Then he turned away with a deep exhale and looked back towards the bed. The covers were pulled down, disorderly, and he could see the indents of where the two had been the previous night. He moved towards the bed and placed his hand on the smaller indent, where Jeanette had been, and frowned slightly, thoughtful.

Jeanette had been so convinced that Kitty had been alive – she had even gone so far as to say that she had had Kitty in her own house, and that when Kitty had not been there like she was supposed to be, Jeanette had said that Crane had taken her. But then when Napier had confronted Gerald about it, Gerald had told him that Kitty was dead, and had been dead for a while. It was possible that Jeanette had made a mistake, Napier thought. Or it could also be possible that Gerald had made the mistake. But both had seemed so thoroughly convinced that their story was the real one... there seemed to be no discernable answer to the problem.

Napier sat down on the bed, tracing the indent of Jeanette's form with his hand, and felt a slight prickling sensation from his groin, but he payed it no mind. Now was not the time to think about desires. Now was the time to think about the possible explanation for the differences in stories concerning Kitty. Napier had seen Kitty die, with his own eyes, or so he had thought; Gerald's story sounded reasonable. Perhaps she had gone on and had a life without him. But she had died young anyways. It seemed almost pointless that they would keep her from him, if she were to just go on to die an unnatural death at the hands of some other murderer.

At this, Napier frowned. He would not have killed Kitty, he told himself. He would have protected her. And now he could not, because the so-called professionals at Gotham General thought it would be a good idea to make his wife forget all about him. His frowned deepened. Who were they, he wondered angrily, to decide that kind of thing? Even Gerald had said that Kitty had wanted to return to him, and yet the employees at Gotham General had deemed him too dangerous to go back to.

Napier looked away from Jeanette's indent, angry. Even if there was nothing he could do to bring Kitty back from the dead, there was certainly something he could do to make himself feel better about it.

Napier looked back at the closet, where he could see his purple trench coat peeking out from between the other clothes. He got up from the bed and crossed to the closet, pulling it out, and then looked up. His other Joker clothes were in the bathroom. They were torn and bloody, but they would have to do. It was the principle of the matter, he told himself. He did not have to be pristine. And besides, he told himself, he could probably convince Jeanette to fix up his outfit, with the right persuasion. Again, he felt the tingling sensation in his lower half, but again he ignored it.

Now was not the time for lust. Now was the time for vengeance.

. . .

Jarvis Tetch had only been on vacation for a few days, but he already wanted to go back to work. Even making copies and looking over blueprints was better than sitting at home, doing nothing, worrying about the world outside. Tetch was a nervous wreck, and the fact that he could not go into work and be protected by the security of Wayne Enterprises was not reassuring in the least. At home, he had nothing to do but fret and read his worn copy of Alice in Wonderland, and even that was starting to lose its appeal, in the current panicked climate that Gotham City found itself in.

Tetch paced his living-room, wearing down the greenish carpet that he had laid out in front of his bookshelf, between two reading chairs, only one of which had ever been used. Tetch paused, staring at the unused chair, and sighed. He had been saving that chair for the girl of his dreams, but she had never been interested in him. He had worked in a technological industry before WayneTech, somewhere outside the city of Gotham, and he had fallen head-over-heels for his co-worker.

Alice had been the moon and stars to Tetch, but she had never shown any interest in him, seeing as she had been in a relationship at the time. When she broke up with her boyfriend, Tetch had eagerly jumped on the opportunity to court her, but she misinterpreted the flowers he had given her, thinking he was trying to make her feel better about the whole situation. The next day, Alice had gotten back together with her boyfriend, much to the chagrin of Tetch. When he had approached her about the situation and finally got up the courage to tell her how he felt about her, Alice and the rest of the company had laughed at him. Unable to deal with the shame, Tetch had left town and moved to Gotham.

Tetch turned away from the empty chair with a heavy sigh, looking back at the copy of Alice in Wonderland that sat in his own worn reading chair. He picked up the book and opened it to the marked page, the illustration of his favourite part. "At any rate I'll never go _there_ again," Tetch smiled as he read Alice's lines aloud, "It's the stupidest tea-party I ever was at in all my life." He chuckled, then closed the book and stashed it on the shelf alongside all his other, less-worn books. He smiled again to himself, then turned away from his bookshelf.

He was going to go back to WayneTech. At least he would not have to worry about being attacked by the Joker if he was at work.

He took his keys off the hook he kept them on by the front door and exited the house, remembering to lock the door behind him. He turned around, starting to walk down his driveway, when suddenly he felt something hard strike the back of his head.

Then everything went black.

. . .

The Joker hummed a few bars of some song with no real tune, grinding away at a sharpening wheel.

Jarvis Tetch opened his eyes, and instantly wished he had not. His head was throbbing. He tried to reach up a hand to feel what he was sure was a welt forming on the back of his head, but discovered that his hands were tied behind him. He glanced down to find that his feet were also bound together. He shot awake, and was instantly aware of the fact that he was bound to a chair. "What the -?!" he said, mostly to himself.

The Joker glanced up at Tetch, and a grin quirked to his lips when he saw that the man was awake. "Good morning, Sunshine," he said, returning his attention to the grinding wheel.

Tetch looked around him at his surroundings. From the look of the place, it had once been a blacksmith's shop, but the blacksmith was long gone. Cobwebs hung thick from the ceiling, and all the tools sat scattered about on the ground, blackened and rusty with age. He could hear the unnerving sound of the grinding wheel somewhere behind him, and he tried to turn to look, but he could not see that far back. "Where am I?" he asked.

Joker raised his eyebrows and shrugged, not looking up at Tetch. "That depends a good deal on where you want to get to," he replied coolly.

Tetch frowned, turning his head to try to get a look at the Joker. "What?" he asked.

Joker looked up at him, stopping the wheel. "What?" he asked, monotone. There was a moment of silence. Then the grinding wheel started up again.

Tetch's frown deepened, and he turned back around, staring at his bound feet. "The Cheshire Cat," he said after a moment.

Joker looked up at him again, not stopping the wheel this time, and grinned. "What _about_ him?" he asked.

"That-that was him, that was… what he said to Alice," Tetch said, nodding nervously as he thought about it. "She said… Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here? And he said… That depends a good deal on where you want to get to."

"Is that so?" Joker asked, stopping the wheel. He picked up what he had been sharpening and grinned as the wan light coming in through the broken windows shone against the blade of the axe he held in his hands. "Let me ask you something…" the Joker said. "Jervis, is it?"

"Jarvis," Tetch corrected him. "Jarvis Tetch."

"Right, Jarvis." The Joker slid a thoughtful gloved finger along the now-sharp blade of the axe. "About five years ago, you were called on by Gotham General to perform a not-yet-government-approved procedure on one of their patients. Do you happen to remember what it was you did?"

Tetch stared at his shoes, licking his dry lips as he tried to remember what the Joker was talking about. "I… don't remember being asked to do anything by Gotham General," he admitted, shaking his head.

The Joker looked up at him, frowning slightly. "Really?" he asked. He looked back down at the axe in his hands. "Nothing?" He glanced over at Tetch and slung the axe onto his shoulder, sashaying over to the man. Once there, he placed the blade of the axe against Tetch's throat. Tetch swallowed, tensing up, and whimpered slightly. "Are you _sure?_" asked the Joker slowly.

"Wait! Wait!" exclaimed Tetch, frantic. "I… I think I remember something!"

The Joker paused, then pulled the blade away from Tetch's throat. "Go on," he said, letting the axe hang limp by his side.

Tetch panted, trying to think of what he had done five years previous, and stuttered, "I… I remember that Gotham General called me in, 'cause… they wanted me to do… hypnotherapy on this woman." His eyes searched the ground as he tried to think of more details. "She… she was a new mother, and… and they said they wanted me to make her forget something…"

"Forget _what?_" asked the Joker, giving Tetch his rapt attention. "What were they trying to make her forget?"

"They said…" Tetch glanced over at the Joker, then shied away, thinking frantically. "They said they wanted her to forget her husband… Said he was dangerous. Something about… drugs."

"So you did it?" the Joker pressed. "No questions asked, no… verification that the story was true?"

"She looked like she needed help," Tetch argued. "I mean, just by looking at her, you could tell that something wasn't good on the home front, like this guy they were trying to make her forget had beat her or something –"

"I NEVER BEAT MY WIFE!" The Joker raised the axe and drove it into the back of Tetch's chair. Tetch screamed and cowered away.

"PLEASE!" he pleaded, "I DIDN'T SAY YOU DID! I DIDN'T KNOW SHE WAS YOUR WIFE, I-I… I DIDN'T KNOW!"

The Joker panted, staring at Tetch, and then shook his head, as if trying to clear it, and cleared his throat. Then he yanked the axe out of the back of Tetch's chair and stared at the blade, as if he had dulled it by using it just once. "And then what happened?" he asked, his voice returning to normal.

Tetch looked up at him, wild-eyed, panting. This guy was nuts, and not in any kind of good way. He swallowed hard, shaking his head. "I… I did the procedure," he said. "Oh, god, please don't kill me!"

The Joker smirked. "You're kinda funny, you know?" he asked. Then his smile disappeared. "Is the procedure reversible? Or is it permanent?"

"What?" asked Tetch confused.

The Joker looked up at him. "Will my wife be able to remember me if she sees me?" he asked.

Tetch contemplated this for a moment, then shrugged, shaking his head. "I don't know," he answered. "Like you said, it hasn't been government-approved, so… they haven't tested it on anyone else before. Your wife was the first." He looked away, thinking. "I mean, there's always the _possibility_ that she could remember you, or anything about her life before that night, but…" He shook his head again, looking back at the Joker. "I just don't know."

The Joker nodded, considering this. Then he looked back at Tetch. "You were telling me about Alice's meeting with the Cheshire Cat, earlier," he said, completely off-topic. He leaned an elbow against the back of the chair and grinned wickedly down at Tetch. "Tell me more about that."

Tetch glanced over at him, then cringed, looking away again. "Well… then she went to…" He swallowed hard. "Uh, she went to… the Mad Tea Party." A slight, nervous grin played at the corners of his mouth. "That's… m-my favourite part," he stuttered. "The Mad Tea P-Party."

"Uh-huh," Joker said, not really paying attention. He fingered a lock of Tetch's hair, then let it drop back to its original position. "Your hair wants cutting," he commented.

Tetch swallowed again. "The Mad Hatter's first line," he said.

Joker grinned, chuckling slightly. "You really _like_ that book, _don't_ you?" he asked, a cruel, amused lilt in his voice.

Tetch nodded nervously. "It's my favourite," he said, not looking at the Joker. He chuckled slightly, a breathy, uneasy titter. "I liked… the Hatter, best of all," he said. He swallowed hard, glancing at the Joker, then turned away, frowning.

The Joker looked at what would have been his nails, if he had not been wearing gloves, nonchalant. He sniffed carelessly, shrugging. "I was always more of a fan of the, uh… _Cat,_" the Joker said.

Tetch huffed, glancing quickly at the Joker and then looking away. "I can tell," he said under his breath.

Joker frowned, looking down at him. "Was that a jab at how I look?" he asked.

Tetch looked up at him, afraid. "N-no," he stuttered.

Joker's frown deepened. "You should learn not to make personal remarks," he said, a grin starting to slowly spread at the edges of his mouth. "It's very rude."

"Alice, to the Hatter," Tetch said, turning away, his eyes wide, his body starting to shake slightly. He looked absolutely hysterical. It seemed the literature was his way of attempting to calm his nerves, but it was not helping very much. "Right before… right before he asked…"

"Why is a raven like a writing-desk?" Joker completed his statement. He leaned down until his face was right next to Tetch's. He grinned. "Hmm?" he asked.

Tetch shook his head, turning his face away so he did not have to look at the Joker. "I don't… I don't know!" he exclaimed. "They never said… _nobody_ knows! It's all just nonsense!"

"Nonsense?" Joker stood straight, staring down at Tetch. He frowned slightly. "I'm disappointed in you, Jarvis," he said. "I would expect you, of all people, to be able to tell me the answer to a simple question like that."

Joker picked up the axe from its resting place against the floor and began inspecting the blade with a kind of careless superiority. "The time has come, the Walrus said," Joker said, walking around Tetch and looking meditatively at the blade of the axe, "to talk of many things… of shoes, and ships, and sealing-wax…" He looked up at Tetch as he came to stand in front of him. "…Of cabbages and kings…" He leaned against the handle of the axe, grinning at Tetch. "And how the world can be so cruel… with all the shit it brings."

Tetch frowned. "That's not how the poem goes," he told the Joker.

Joker shrugged. "I was never much good with poetry," he said. Then, grabbing up the axe, he kicked over Tetch's chair so the man lay, flat-backed on the ground. Joker came up and stood beside him, looking down at him with a sinister, maniacal grin. Then he raised the axe into the air, pulling it back behind his head. Tetch's eyes grew wide in horror.

"No, don't!" he screamed.

"Off with his head!" Joker cried, and brought the axe down.

. . .

Thomas sat listlessly in his cubicle, surfing the news idly and refreshing the incoming police feed on his desktop's screen every few minutes. It was shocking how little was going on today; usually, after a big story like his, someone would get scared and do something stupid. He distinctly remembered the incident with the fake Batmen a few weeks back. Group of guys in their thirties and forties who thought that they could help Batsy out.

He might have laughed if it weren't so serious. All of them had been completely out-fought by the gang they'd attempted to take on.

A real tragedy, and one that - as usual - could have been prevented if the GCPD had just stepped up and done their job.

He sat back in his seat and twirled a pencil between his fingers, glancing up at his cubicle wall. It was plastered with pictures of criminals; mug shots and newspaper clippings completely covered the small space. He peered at a close-up some amateur photographer had gotten right before she'd been brutally killed. It was eerie, knowing that Thomas had been less than a foot away from the killer and hadn't even known it.

Ah, well. It wasn't like it'd happen again.

. . .

The paperboy should have just dropped his bag of newspapers and run. Then the Joker would not have had to kill him.

As it was, he was almost glad he had decided to kill the boy; he needed the loose change in the young man's pockets to make a call on a nearby payphone to the local newspaper office. Now he stood against the side of the telephone box, waiting as it rang, and stuffed his free hand into the pocket of his purple trench coat, humming tunelessly. He wet his lips, waiting for someone to pick up on the other end, and considered the blood trail he had left when dragging the paperboy's body into a nearby side alley. If someone were smart, he thought, they would follow the blood trail to the boy's body. If they were smarter, they would leave well enough alone.

His thought process was interrupted when someone picked up on the other end. "Uh, yeah, hello," he said, turning away from the blood trail and taking his hand from his pocket. "Is this the local paper? Uh-huh, okay. Yeah." He wet his lips and swallowed. "Can I talk to one of your writers? Yeah, uh…" He lifted one of the papers off the ground and frowned at the fine print. "Thomas Hale…?" he asked. He let the paper drop to the ground as he listened, only half-interested, to what the woman on the other end had to say.

"Right. Well, since he's busy, could you give him a message for me?" He started to run a hand through his clean, off-green hair, then paused when he realized his hand was sticky and wet. He pulled it away from his hair, only to see that it was covered in wet blood. He sighed, then went back to combing aside a lock of hazel hair out of his dark eyes. "Yeah. A message. You got something to write on, something to write with…?" He took his hand away from his hair and wiped the blood on his trench coat. "Okay, write: Iceberg Lounge, eight o' clock. Let's talk."

He grinned at his message. It almost rhymed. Then he snapped back to reality. "My name?" he asked. "Oh…" He looked down at his blood-streaked coat and smirked. "Just sign it 'J'," he told the receptionist. "Yeah. No, that's it. Thanks." And with that, he hung up. "Oh, Thomas, Thomas, Thomas Hale," he said to himself, amused. "We have some talking to do, me and you, you and me… both of us, together!"

He giggled fanatically, then turned and disappeared. He had to get ready before meeting up with Hale.

. . .

Thomas returned from his third coffee-break of the day with the nice, warm feeling that went hand-in-hand with being respected. All day he'd been getting pats on the back and "nice article!"s from people he didn't even _know_. Not that it bothered him; he took it with the grace and modesty that was expected of him.

Now, as he returned to his desk, a coworker popped his head into his cubicle. "You got a message," the guy said, with a nod at a sticky note on Thomas' wall. He peered at it as the man left, then picked it up and muttered, "The Lounge at eight..." Well, apparently his evening had been planned out for him. And who was this "Jay" character, anyways? Did he even _know_ any Jays?

He shook his head and tossed the sticky into the trash. Well, alright, then. He wasn't about to disregard a possible story. Hell, with his luck, maybe this Jay fellow knew the Joker, or something like that. He chuckled and got back to work.

He had barely begun surfing the news stations again when his phone began vibrating. He frowned and looked at it for a moment. One look at the caller ID made him grin, and he answered immediately. "Hey, Miss Goodhart!"

"Just Maria. Please." Thomas leaned back in his chair with a grin and scratched his chin. "Just thought I'd call and see if you could get together to chat about the Joker sometime. Tonight, if you were free."

He nodded, then remembered that he was talking over the phone. "Sure, sounds great," he replied, leaning forward in his chair. "I've actually got some plans for later tonight, but if you could meet me after those..." He paused and looked at the note in the garbage. Whatever it was about, it couldn't take too long. "Nine alright? Iceberg Lounge, maybe?" Ideally, he could just stay for his chat with her. Good for gas mileage. Good for the environment, and all that crap.

"Sure, that's fine," she replied. "See you then." The line went dead and Thomas set his phone on his desk with a smile and finally got back to work.. This was working out just _great_.

. . .

Gordon sighed as he tossed the photographs from the most recent Joker murder onto his desk, lifting his glasses to rub at his sore eyes. He had seen enough of these gruesome, twisted murders that this one had distressingly little effect on him. The paperboy had had half of his face scraped off against the pavement, where apparently the psycho had taken great pleasure dragging him feet-first into an alley so he was almost unrecognizable. That was not even the worst of it, though, Gordon reminded himself. The boy had apparently been strangled before his body was dragged away – and the preliminary autopsy report said that it seemed to have been done with the cord of a nearby payphone.

Gordon stood from his chair and grimaced as he tacked another red flag onto the map of Gotham he had pinned to the wall. The map, itself, was quickly starting to disappear under a sea of little red-and-blue flags. He frowned and sat back down in his chair, considering the colourful map. Blue flags were sightings, most of which Gordon was almost certain were flukes, and the red were murders, all of which Gordon knew were real. He turned around, back to his desk, and picked up the file again, shaking his head. "This city's going to hell," he said with a heavy sigh.

Just then, Gordon looked up as his phone began to ring. He frowned slightly at it, setting down the file, and then picked it up. "Hello?" he asked, slightly confused. The only person who really called directly to his office line was Maria, and she had not sounded like she was in much of a mood to talk in her last message. In fact, she had sounded almost downright curt with him, though she had given him the very important message that she had found someone vital to the Crane case, and that he, Gordon, should be expecting a call from such a person. This could be that call, Gordon reminded himself.

"Yes, sir, this is Officer Gordon," Gordon said, sitting up straighter in his chair. There was definitely a male on the other end of the line. He sounded rushed and nervous; that made sense, Gordon told himself, if he was putting his own life at risk to report something this important to the GPD. "Miss Goodhart told me you'd be calling. Uh-huh, Maria. I know her." He grabbed a pencil from a mug on his desk and pulled over a pad of sticky notes. "And your name?" he asked. He nodded as he jotted it down. "Gerald Crane. Is that Crane as in Jonathan Crane...?" He looked up in interest as the man on the other end answered. "Oh my," he said, not sure what else to say in response.

Gordon contemplated his situation for a moment, then returned to his sticky-note pad. "Okay, and you're calling with information on the Crane case?" He quickly scribbled down what the other man was saying. Then he looked up with a frown. "The AA building?" he asked. He paused. "Hey, wait a minute," he said, pointing his pencil at no one in particular, "you're Gerald. The AA guy, the volunteer. I know you." Gordon smiled. "Yeah, you helped out the GPD a couple times, making copies, filing paperwork, that kind of thing. My wife says you volunteered at Gotham General for a bit, too. You're just all over the place, huh?" His grin faded as he listened to the other end. "Right, I'm sorry," he said, returning to his sticky notes. "You haven't got much time. I understand."

He tapped his pencil fretfully against the edge of his desk as he listened to the man on the other end, nodding along. "Okay," he finally said. "I got it. We'll send over a unit as soon as we can." His frown darkened slightly as he listened. "I wouldn't go back there, if I were you," he warned. "Dr. Crane is a dangerous person." He listened for a moment, then shook his head. "I _know_ he's your son..." he began to say, but before he could finish, the other end cut out and he was holding a phone blaring out a disconnected dial tone.

Gordon frowned darkly as he hung up. That man, Gerald Crane, had sounded so... frightened. He picked up his sticky-note pad and stared at all the little scribbled details. They would have to send over a unit right away. The only problem was, for the GPD, "right away" could mean anything from fifteen minutes to six hours.

Gordon sighed, dropping the sticky-note pad back onto his desk and pushing himself out of his chair. Well, the least he could do was try to inspire some productivity. And if he could not... he hoped that Gerald would be all right until the GPD arrived.

. . .

Crane's playing with his new handgun was making Kitty nervous. She sat on her hands in one of the AA chairs, watching as he looked it over, inspecting each little facet of it, unloading and then reloading it with a click, his clear blue eyes travelling over the sleek form of the weapon with far too much morbid enjoyment for Kitty's comfort. She bit her lip, looking away, and crossed her ankles. According to Crane, his father had gone missing the night previous and had not returned. Kitty hoped he would not come back; if he was a good man, she did not want him to be in danger. And if he was just like his son, she did not want more than one of them around. Either way, she thought, it would be best for her if Gerald Crane were to not return to the AA building.

Just then, a noise made Crane look up. He tucked his gun into the back of his belt, pulling his jacket snugly over it, concealing the weapon from sight. Kitty frowned, watching him do this, but her expression changed to worry as he turned to her. "Go into the back room," he instructed her curtly.

She looked surprised. "What?" she asked, slightly confused.

Crane pointed to the side door. "Leave," he told her. "This doesn't concern you."

Kitty frowned. "What is it?" she asked.

Crane sighed, clearly getting annoyed. "I'll tell you afterwards," he said slowly, enunciating. He pointed towards the side door again. "Now leave."

Kitty stared at him for a long moment. Then, collecting up her skirt, she got up from her chair and moved to the side door. Crane turned back around, setting his face in a cold half-smirk as the door of the AA building opened and Gerald stepped inside. Gerald paused, looking up and locking eyes with his son. There was a long moment of silence. Then Crane spoke, "Hello, Father."

Gerald stared at Crane for a moment. Then his gaze moved to Kitty. She stared back at him, frowning in somewhat confused concern. Crane's brow furrowed slightly and he turned to look back at Kitty. "Oh," he said, turning back to Gerald. "Don't mind her." He looked at Kitty over his shoulder again. "She was just... _leaving,_" he said in a dangerous, icy tone. Kitty looked at him, then back at Gerald. Then she disappeared into the side room.

Crane looked back at Gerald with a cold grin. "Anyways," he said with a sigh.

Gerald frowned, then slowly turned to face his son. "What have you done, Jonathan?" he asked.

Crane glared at him, flattening his nose in disdain. "I don't see that it's any of your business to question me, old man," he said, cocking his head. "Not if you want to see your grandchild... ever."

Gerald stared at him for a long, silent moment. Crane glared right back. The temperature in the room seemed to drop a degree. Then Gerald turned away, defeated. "I don't like what you're doing, Jonathan," he said quietly. "Not one bit."

"And yet you came back," Crane replied with a shrug. "That certainly says something."

"I came back because, as little as either of us would like to admit it, you _are_ my son, Jonathan," Gerald replied curtly. "But just because you're my son doesn't mean I have to approve of what you do. If anything, it makes it that much worse _because _you are my son."

"You really have no room to judge me, _Father,_" said Crane coldly, emphasizing the last word. "You're not exactly a _saint,_ yourself."

Gerald turned back around and stared at him. "I loved your mother," he said. "I wanted to marry her. What did you do? Rape another man's wife?"

"With every intention of returning her once I'm finished with her," Crane said with a sarcastic smirk.

Gerald stared at him, disbelieving. "I can't believe you're my son," he said in a low voice. "How did you ever turn out this way?"

"Blame yourself, _Daddy Dearest,_" Crane hissed bitterly. "Maybe if you'd been there, I wouldn't _be_ this way." He sighed condescendingly, his crystalline eyes straying. "Or maybe I would," he said in a high, wistful voice. "You can't change what's in your... genes."

His clear blue eyes returned to Gerald, cold. "It looks like you're stuck with me," he said.

Gerald shook his head. "No," he said. "As long as I'm alive, I will not be associated with someone as evil as you. That's what you are, Jonathan... _evil._"

Crane raised his eyebrows. "Oh, dear," he said. "Well, we can't have _that,_ now can we?" He stared at Gerald for a long moment, looking him up and down. "I guess I'll just have to... leave," he said, shrugging, and started to turn away. Then, turning back to Gerald, he pulled his handgun from his belt, pulled the trigger, and watched, emotionless, as his own father fell to the ground, dead.

Crane considered the growing bloodstain around what was left of his father's head as he let the gun cool off in his hand. Then, pulling his cotton undershirt from beneath his suit, he wiped the gun clean of his prints, pressed it into his father's palm, and turned to start walking away from the scene of the crime, when he stopped. Kitty was standing in the doorway, staring at him. Then her attention went to Gerald. Crane stared at her, his eyebrows raised. Kitty looked back at him, her expression frantic.

"What happened?" she exclaimed, scared.

Crane stared at her for a long moment, then turned, looked at Gerald, and then turned back to Kitty and shrugged. "Poor old man," he said. "He couldn't take the pressure." He stared at Kitty for another long moment, then let out a long sigh. "Well," he said, "we can't let a small thing like that spoil our evening."

He started walking towards her again, and she backed away, afraid. He stared at her. "What?" he said. "You think I'm going to try something?" He scoffed. "I'm not _that_ desperate," he told her. He looked her up and down. "Besides," he added, "you're already pregnant. Therefore, I have no more interest in you."

Kitty stared at him, mortified. Crane disregarded her look of shock and moved past her, out the door, leaving her standing alone in the room with the dead man. "Flicker!" he called, hoping the pyromaniac was within earshot. "Torch this place. Our business is done here."

"'Torch it', 'e says," Flicker muttered irritably, stepping out of the back room with a distasteful glance at the body on the floor. So messy. "What am I, a fuckin' _dog_?" She continued grumbling as she pulled out her lighter and moved to rummage around in a storage closet off of the main room.

There were a few large bottles of rubbing alcohol inside. She looked at them for a good minute, a mischievous smile settling over her features, and yanked out all of the bottles she could carry.

It took nearly five minutes to coat the more flammable portions of the warehouse in the alcohol; too long, in Flick's opinion. When she finally stepped outside and watched the flames tear apart the building, though, she did so with a content smile. It was totally worth it. Life was good.

As she turned away from the fire, she noticed again the bloody body of Gerald Crane lying inside on the dirty floor. She considered it for a long moment, watching the flames slowly eat their way towards the corpse. With a sigh, she dashed back into the building, heaved the body over her shoulder (with a groan; this was going to _ruin_ her outfit, and this was her favorite tank top!), and then ran back outside with an unhealthy amount of hacking and choking from the thick smoke billowing out the door. She dropped Gerald's arm the moment she was free of the building, letting the body hit the ground with a sick thud.

The least she could do was guarantee the guy some sort of remembrance. The thought of anyone dying like that, burned up in a fire, with no one even knowing or caring that you were gone, made her curiously sad. This way, he would be found by the GPD and buried like any respectable citizen. She glanced once more at the body, then turned away with some more coughing and trotted off to follow Crane wherever he decided they'd go next.


	49. Chapter FortyEight

Kaitlyn was fully aware that it was midday by the time she woke up. She ignored that fact at first, however, and just rolled over.

Then she remembered Robert's rude interruption of her beauty sleep the night before, and rolled (quite literally) out of bed. Whatever it was, it had damn well better be important.

He was sitting at the kitchen table when she entered the main room. A cup of coffe in one hand and a sheet of statistics in the other, he looked totally content. He looked up as she entered the room. "Hey, Fuse, how'd you slee...?"

"Cut the shit, Boomer." She yawned, yanked out a seat, and plopped herself into it. "What'd you wake me up for, last night? Breakthrough already?" She snatched the paper out of his hand and inspected it. It was some sort of list; a closer look revealed that it was hundreds of bullet names. Certain ones were highlighted in different colors; the result would give even the most stable person a seizure. She raised her eyebrows and glanced up at Robert. "Been busy, freak?"

"_One_ of us has to be," he replied, taking the sheet back and going back to inspecting it. "This is a list of every type of bullet that's been involved in a Gotham shooting in the last six months." He ignored Kaitlyn's whistle, accepting it with a grin and a nod, then gestured at it with a hand. "I ignored all of the ones that happened in the Narrows; this is the stuff from the inner city," he explained.

He pointed at one of the ones highlighted in blue. "This is the one involved in the Joker clown assassination. And this," he indicated another one in blue, "is the one from that picture I showed you last night. The one with the same grooves as the rifle bullet." He leaned back with a sigh, making sure he still had his partner's attention; she'd gone into the kitchen and was pouring herself a cup of coffee. "Everything else in blue had the same grooves as those other two. It's the mark, as you told me last night, of a very specialized bullet, one made purely for accuracy."

He paused here. This was where the conjecturing started. "Remember the DA's speech from a while back? Dent's talk about the new criminals in town?" She nodded. "I think every shooting that involved one of those grooved bullets involved the same person. It's too personalized to be chance."

"So if we focus on only _those_ shootings..." Kaitlyn started.

"Then we can find the killer." Robert grinned. "Exactly."

Kaitlyn grinned and languidly scratched her neck. Then her smile turned into a frown. "I don't mean to sound _unapprec'tive_, 'r anything," she began, looking again at the list, "but how does this help us find the _Jo_-ker?" She looked back up to find her partner grinning. "_What_?"

"That's the beauty of it, isn't it?" he said, philosophical as ever as he ran a hand through his hair and glanced out the window. "It's amazing how some criminals just find it impossible not to _associate_ with each other..." He looked suggestively at the picture of the clown murder bullet. Kaitlyn scowled.

"You think this guy worked with the Joker. Or has some sort of connection to him." She ignored his happy grin. "Pretty quick conclusion to jump to, isn't it? I mean, he could've shot one of the guy's men as a _job_. I think it's safe to assume that he's an assassin of some kind."

He shook his head, still smiling. "I pulled the police files on all of the murders involving the highlighted bullets, and not a single one of them was a criminal. Sure, a few had _traffic offenses_, but..." Kaitlyn punched his shoulder, but she was grinning.

"Fine. You get that one," she conceded, going back to the kitchen to rinse out her now-empty mug. "And if this hunch is wrong, and we're all busy investigating this assassin lead..."

"We?" Robert grinned as he put on his shoes. "We don't _both_ have to be going after this lead. You were the one who _wanted_ the Joker case so bad. Right?" With that, he headed out the door without another word.

. . .

Rachel sat at her computer, scrolling through another long, lifeless court settlement as she whiled away the time until she could leave for the day. Today had been unnaturally dull, and all Rachel really wanted at the moment was a pick-me-up, just a little something to brighten her day. Getting back together with Harvey the day before had been a definite plus, but the hype had worn off, and their relationship had gone back to the same as it had been before they had broken up, for however short a period of time. Rachel was glad to be back together with Harvey, but that thought alone could not drag her through a full day of editing grammar mistakes on a case in which she had no remote interest.

Rachel sighed as she scrolled down another page of text, her eyes getting weary from all the legal text, the court formatting, the endless reference numbers that she did not have the law books memorized well enough to know to what they were referring. Suddenly, her attention was pulled away from her screen by her office phone ringing. She frowned slightly, a bit confused as to who would be calling her at her office, but picked up the phone anyways. "Hello?" she asked, somewhat hesitant.

"_Hellooo?_" a goofy-sounding voice on the other end drawled. "Is this the Sexy Secretary Service?"

Rachel giggled. "Maybe," she answered, turning away from her computer. "It depends on who's asking."

"Well, aren't we feeling _uppity_ today," the put-on voice at the other end lilted. "This is an interested customer. I would like to request the services of one of your sexy secretaries for the evening."

Rachel grinned. "Services?" she asked. "What kind of service do you take this for?"

"A sexy one," the voice answered.

Rachel laughed. "And what kind of payment are you willing to offer for such a first-class service?" she asked, smiling away. This was too much fun.

"I think dinner at the Aquarius sounds nice," the goofy voice suggested. "And then dessert at my house afterwards."

Rachel put her face in her palm, shaking her head and giggling uncontrollably. "Harvey, you're a nut!" she laughed into the phone.

Dent laughed as well, unable to keep up the silly put-on voice. "Didn't fool you for a minute, did I?" he asked.

Rachel shook her head. "I know your voice too well," she told him.

"So will you be there?" he asked. "I've got the reservation set at seven. Will you be able to take time out of your insanely busy schedule to accommodate me?"

A smirk played at the corner of Rachel's mouth. "I'll have to cancel an otherwise really important appointment," she said jokingly, "but I think I can pencil you in for seven."

"And dessert afterwards…?" The hopeful hint in Dent's voice was almost overpowering.

Rachel rolled her eyes. "And dessert afterwards," she said.

Dent chuckled on his end of the line. "All right," he said. "See you then… _sexy._" He paused, and then added, "I love you."

"I love you, too, Harvey," Rachel said with a smile. Then she hung up the phone and turned back to her work. Suddenly, all those pages of legal work did not seem so daunting.

. . .

Shawn picked up another of the endless papers stacked in his inbox, stamped a bright red "reviewed" over its header, and sighed. Then he glanced at the phone on his desk for the umpteenth time that day, and the day before.

Harvey hadn't called since their dinner and _dessert_ (a brief grin flitted across Shawn's face, but it disappeared almost instantly), and he was starting to get worried. Had he done something wrong? His hands jittered nervously, and his pen dropped to the floor; moments later, he heard Garcia yell something irritated and unintelligible from behind his office doors. Shawn bobbed his head frantically in an appeasing nod, and the mayor went back to his work. And Shawn sighed.

Then he reached for the phone. He'd just _call_ Harvey. That was it. It would be better to hear it from the man himself if he wasn't interested, than keep this awful silence going. Shawn punched in the number and waited.

Harvey hung up the phone from talking to Rachel and grinned, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up on the table, folding his hands behind his head with a satisfied sigh. Rachel did not suspect a thing, and he knew it was all due to his charm and wit. Shawn had no idea he was back together with Rachel, which was just as good. If either person found out anything about the other, his whole façade would be blown. But, luckily for him, he was too smart for that to happen. He shook his head and chuckled, quite pleased with himself.

"Oh, Harvey," he said, carelessly brushing off a spot on his jacket, "you absolute devil."

Just then, his office phone began to ring. He paused, looking over at it, then picked it up, still leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up on the desk. "_Hellooo?_" he asked, assuming it was Rachel. He suddenly changed tones when he realized it was not. "Oh, hey, Shawn," he said, sounding amiable. This was unexpected. He took his feet off his desk and set them back on the ground, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his desk. He had no paperwork set out in front of him; Dent hardly did any paperwork anymore nowadays, since most of the small-time criminals had decided that now was the best time to sit back and enjoy the show that the better – according to their twisted little ratings scale – villains of Gotham were putting on.

"Yeah, it's been a while," said Dent, nodding along. He pulled open a side drawer of his desk and took out a nail file, which he began to half-nervously file his nails with. "A whole two days. Yeah. How've you been? Good?" He smiled. "That's good." He held up one hand, inspecting his nails, and then turned back to the phone, setting down the file on his desk. He did not really need to do that; it was just a distraction. "What can I do for you, Shawn?" he asked.

Shawn fiddled with his pencil holder, his folders, and his computer mouse, then gripped the edge of the desk with forceful finality. He grinned shakily until he seemed to realize that he was talking over the phone and looked out the window with a somewhat nauseous expression. "Hey," he said, ultra-casual and calm - or so he told himself. "Just checking in, you know."

He paused for a moment. How should he word this? "Oh, I don't know, just wondering if you wanted to get together, or something." Nicely done, Palmer. "Dinner or something." That was better. He kicked his feet up onto his desk, or, at least, tried to; he upset his balance and nearly went toppling to the floor. He picked himself up quickly, ears burning when he heard Garcia laughing uproariously from the other room.

Was he being too forward? Should he have waited another day before starting to get worried? Shoot, did he sound nervous? He fixed his hair nervously in his faint reflection in the window wall behind his desk.

Dent stiffened. This was bad. Shawn was doing exactly what Dent hoped he would not – acting like a woman. He had been interested in the guy, he had taken him home, sure, and it was an improvement that he waited two days to call, rather than just one… but still. Dent sighed, leaning back in his chair, and pushed back his blond hair, which fell back into place as soon as his hand had passed over it. "Well, Shawn," he said, trying not to sound put on the spot, "I, um… I actually have plans for tonight… _work stuff,_ you know." He cleared his throat. "But, um, Tuesday sounds good for dinner."

He leaned forward again, picking up his pen and pulling a pad of paper towards him. "How's Tuesday at the Iceberg?" he asked. "You know, that place we went to last time… I'm real good friends with the owner." He grinned. "Did you like it last time?" He shook his head dismissively, jotting down on his pad. "Of course you did," he said without even waiting for an answer. "It's a great place."

Dent clicked his pen closed, leaning back in his chair again, and picked up the pad, staring at his notes. "All righty, then," he said, grinning. "Sounds like a date. Make sure you clear your schedule." His grin widened. "Are you still up for a little extra entertainment back at my place?" he asked in a slightly lower voice, "Or should we flip a coin again to see if you'll be coming along?" He chuckled. "Let's not leave this one up to chance," he said, setting down the pad and crossing his arm carelessly across his ribcage.

"So I'll see you on Tuesday," he said. "Okay. See you then." He smiled wryly. "You been thinking about me lately?" he asked as a final note. "You bet I've been thinking about you. All the time." He leaned forward then, grinning. "All right, then. See you on Tuesday. Seven o' clock, the Iceberg." He nodded. "Bye, now," he said. Then he hung up.

"This is going to be a good week," Dent said with a satisfied sigh, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up on his desk again.

. . .

Fuckin' Robert, with his fuckin' plans and fuckin' connections and fuckin' intuition...

Kaitlyn scowled all the way to the police station, only realizing when she got there with a groan of frustration that he'd outsmarted her _again_.

The two were certainly childhood friends, if not something more. She often swore that she and Boomer shared a sort of sibling-like bond; there were those times, for instance, when she almost knew what he'd say before he actually said it. But that connection also meant that they bickered and fought like brother and sister. It was a running competition, seeing who figured their latest case out first.

Not to mention they were chasing the infamous Joker for this job. Whoever figured it out first would have bragging rights for _years_, and Kaitlyn was not the sort to take losing with good humor.

So it was understandable that she stomped straight past the front desk at the station, totally ignoring the polite welcome offered her by the receptionist. Unfortunately, she made it only a few cubicles into the actual workspace before said receptionist caught up to her with an irritated frown. She carefully ignored his long explanation about "how things worked in here". She'd heard it only too many times. So, instead of nodding along with him, she simply flashed her special forces badge and continued on to the desks at the back. The receptionist sighed, threw his hands in the air, muttered something almost certainly derrogatory, and headed back to his desk.

Kaitlyn reached Officer Gordon's desk in a worse temper than she'd had when she'd walked through the doors. Thus, she wasted no time with formalities. "You're Gordon, right? Been heading up th' Joker case?" She dropped her badge uncaringly on his desk. "I'm with the FBI special forces unit. I'm going to need to have a look at any research you've done so far..."

She cut off there, distracted by the sight of a map of the city posted on the wall. She moved over to it and prodded the end of one of the flags stuck in it. "Sightings or murders?" she asked, nodding at the red flag that she'd touched. She looked at the older man for the first time then, sharp eyes noting his worry-lines and the tired bags under his eyes. She softened up a bit. "Sorry about this abruptness; this case is pretty high priority, and I'd hate to lose it for dawdling, or something silly like that." She grinned and stuck out a hand. "I'm Kaitlyn Creed." She nodded at the badge she'd dropped on his desk.

Gordon looked up at the impromptu interruption from his thought process, and set down the newest picture of his family that he had been looking at. Olivia was fitting in so nicely with the rest of the Gordon family that it was almost like she had always been there. He frowned, sitting up straight in his chair and frowning at the girl who had barged her way so unceremoniously into his personal space. He opened his mouth, trying to find the words to say, but closed it again, unable to think on his feet. Then he took a deep breath.

"Yes, I'm Gordon," he said, using his most commanding voice. "And I've been doing most of the investigations on the Joker case... Why are you interested in –?" He was cut short by her dropping her badge onto his desk. He picked it up and inspected it; it looked legitimate. He set the badge back down, looking up at her as she continued her rushed explanation of what she was doing there, and his frown deepened. He had assured the FBI that he had the entire thing under control, but there they were again, sticking their noses in places they were not wanted.

Gordon scoffed, slightly offended. "I think I've got everything under control, Miss..." He faltered. She had not told him her name, but she just kept going. He stood from his chair, more than a little affronted. "I'm handling this case just fine," he informed her. "I don't need the FBI barging in on it. I've told them that multiple times before, and I'll tell them again. I have this thing under control." He glanced over at the map when she pointed it out to him, and let out an annoyed breath. "The blue flags are sightings," he told her, pointing to the map. "Red are murders."

He looked back at her, tired and peeved, and was a bit surprised when she loosened her act up a bit. "Well, of _course_ it's high priority, Miss Creed," he said, taking the hand he was offered and shaking it. "But that doesn't mean the FBI has to get involved. The GCPD has this thing entirely under control." He glanced back at his desk, hoping she would not notice the stack of murder files that were sitting under some more recent paperwork. The newest one, which sat on top, was a particularly gruesome beheading murder, where the weapon of choice seemed to have been an axe.

Gordon closed the murder file and stacked them together, sitting back in his chair, opening a drawer in his desk and stuffing them inside. Then he turned back to Kaitlyn. "I'm sorry, but you've come to the wrong person," he said. "The FBI really doesn't need to get involved in this case. The GCPD has it perfectly under control." He stood back from his chair and gently took her by the arm. "Now, if you don't mind," he said, starting to steer her towards the doors, "I'm very busy, and would like to get back to work."

It was bullshit, all of it. Kaitlyn peered at Gordon, unconvinced. If his tired and haggard looks had anything to say about it, he needed help. Maybe he was one of those prideful types who didn't like asking. Well, who said Kaitlyn Creed needed an invite?

"Awful lot of red flags there, officer," she commented, lazily tugging her elbow away from his guiding hand and returning to the map like a dog. She glanced back at him with a meaningful grin. "Sure you couldn't use some help? I'm not here to steal the case from you, or nothing..._anything_," she corrected herself. A professional front might be good. "And I'm personally sorry if you've had any...er...negative experiences with my employers before." She put a hand over her heart. "Swear it hasn't been any of my doing."

She followed his momentary gaze. It was a family photo, and Kaitlyn recognized that longing look in his eye all too well. It was very similar to the one Robert got whenever he looked at the picture of his sister he kept on his own desk. "Listen, sir, the least I can do is help," she offered with a noncommittal shrug, still not meeting his eyes. She snagged her badge from his desk and tucked it back into her pocket. "My partner and I are already investigating a few leads. I won't get in the way, and I won't interfere with decisions that the GCPD makes." She bit her lip at the last part; _technically_, she couldn't promise that. But, hell, maybe it'd make Gordon agree faster. She'd heard this guy's reputation being spouted all around town. He was an honest cop (one of the few left) and liked getting the job done quick and right. "It couldn't hurt, right?"

Gordon sighed as the spritely girl freed herself from his lax grasp and returned to pondering the map. He went and stood beside her, listening to her explanation, as well as her apology, and a slight smile came to his face. If the big wigs at the FBI knew that one of their own was apologizing for them, they might not be too pleased about it. But he was not going to tell them about it; he was going to keep it for his own little pleasure. He folded his arms, considering the map as he listened to the rest of Kaitlyn's little speech. Then he turned to her.

"You're a smart one," he said, nodding to her. "That's what I've got to say, first off. You know how to say just the right things." He turned back to his desk and opened the drawer he had stuffed the files into earlier, pulling them out, and spread them out on the desk. He picked up one of them and opened it, showing it to Kaitlyn. "This is a recent Joker killing," he told her, spreading out the pictures from the murder. He pointed to the body in the picture. "He was killed by strangulation. Then his body was dragged into an alleyway."

Gordon closed the file. "The Joker used a nearby payphone to kill the boy," he said, holding it out for her to take. "Then he took his pocket change and a newspaper. We think the only reason he may have done that is that he may have then used the payphone, once he had dispatched of the boy." He grimaced slightly. "It's a gruesome thought," he said, his eyes returning to Kaitlyn's face. "But that's what our investigations have led us to believe." He paused a moment. "Though we can't quite figure out the newspaper," he added. Then he took a deep breath, watching her.

"We don't have the necessary technology," he told her, "but maybe you at the FBI can use your fancy new toys to somehow trace the call he made." He shrugged. "It's worth a shot," he said. He raised his eyebrows. "We had that whole area taped off, so no one has made any calls on that phone since the Joker did." Then he frowned slightly. "I don't think anyone would have wanted to, anyways," he added thoughtfully, "seeing as it was covered in blood."

Gordon grimaced slightly, then looked back up at Kaitlyn and offered her a friendly, if slightly superior, smile. "Good luck with that," he said.

Kaitlyn grinned and winked as she took the photograph from Gordon, eyes sparkling with good humor. And why not? She'd gotten through to him, pretty words or no. "All part'ah the job," she commented, then looked down at the photo.

Her smile slowly turned to a serious look at the bloody corpse. She didn't wince, but instead, brought it close to her face, inspecting the faint bruises around the boy's neck and head. "Definitely strangled," she said in a low voice, lightly tracing the spiral marks around the neck. She held it up to the light more, squinting. "Looks like 'e was hit a few times on the head, too." The dark discolorations on his forehead could be from a punch, but more likely from a blunt edge that he'd knocked into. Flailing was a common reaction to being strangled, she thought coolly, tilting the image from the side to inspect the bruises more carefully.

Then she frowned and glanced up. "I've got an idea for the pay phone, but you mentioned a paper, too?" she confirmed. "I'll have to have a look at it." She looked back down at the picture, searching the boy's face as if she could find the answers there. Then she nodded and the sudden grin reappeared once more. "Thanks, Officer," she said, heading back towards the door. Then she paused.

"Jim Gordon. I've heard about you, you know," she said, turning back with raised eyebrows. "Rumor has it you've got connections to the Bat. Interesting guy?" She waited a moment longer, then turned on her heel and left with a chuckle.


	50. Chapter FortyNine

Jeanette glanced down at her watch with a half-amused, half-worried look. She hefted Jeannie Rose, who was situated on her hip with her arms around her neck, into a more comfortable position and readjusted her grip on the grocery bags. They'd been out _way_ too long. She hoped Jack hadn't gotten in any trouble.

Then she smirked. What did it matter? The police had no leads. They were probably still floundering around totally in the dark, so no worries on that front.

She set the bags down once she reached their apartment door and pulled the key out of her pocket. This was sort of nice, feeling like a family. The little nagging voice ever present at the back of her head whispered that it wouldn't last long, that she couldn't just wait until she found Kitty to figure out what to do, but she ignored it and pushed the door open.

"Could you grab some of those?" she asked Jeannie Rose, setting the girl down and picking up a few of the bags. She set them on the counter inside and started unloading. "Jack, you here?"

Napier looked up when he heard Jeanette's voice. He shook his head, looking down at his crumpled purple trench coat on the floor of the bedroom. It was drenched in blood. He looked down at his gloves and shirt, which had still not been mended, and then at his pants. His entire getup was soaked through with bright scarlet blood. He cursed silently, looking around for someplace to hide the offensive attire. He finally decided on stuffing them under the bed. He would try to wash the blood out of them when Jeanette was out of the house again.

Then his hand went to his hair. It was sticky with blood, from when he had tried to comb it out of his eyes with one of his bloody gloves. He hissed, hoping Jeanette would not notice. It was not like she had known that he had taken a shower earlier. Perhaps she would think that he was still dirty. He tried to push the bloody part out of sight, but his attempts did not work very well. He finally gave up and, pulling the blue policeman's outfit pants from the closet, he slipped into them, then pulled on an undershirt that the policeman had been wearing at his time of death. It was not an ideal outfit, but at least it was not covered in blood.

He exited the bedroom with a grin, moving over to Jeanette and placing a kiss on her cheek. "You're home," he said, looking at the groceries she and Jeannie Rose had bought. He took Jeannie Rose under the arms and picked her up effortlessly, balancing her in a sitting position in his arms. She rested her head against his shoulder, then looked up at him curiously and put a little hand on his scars.

"Where'd you get these?" she asked.

Napier opened his mouth to answer, hesitated, and then closed it. "It's a long story," he said dismissively, hoping she would take the hint and not ask further questions.

Jeannie Rose stared at him, then nodded. "Okay," she said. She held up her arms. "Put me down," she said.

Napier did as he was told, setting the little girl down, and she instantly picked up one of the groceries off the table and moved to the refrigerator, opening it and putting the grocery away. Then Napier looked back at Jeanette. "I'm going to be heading out at around seven-thirty… meeting up with someone." He rested his chin on her shoulder. "No one you should worry about," he added with a smile. "They're nowhere as pretty as you. Or as interesting." He nuzzled her ear with his nose. "I'll be back, though," he said in a lower voice. "So you don't have to miss me _too_ badly."

"Oh, good," Jeanette replied, more than faintly sarcastic. She lifted the rest of the bags up onto the counter with a smile. "I'd _hate_ to have you run off with some other woman _prettier than me_." The words made her pause, smile slipping from her face, but she forced herself to ignore the obvious parallel.

She continued grinning as she worked, packing food and medical supplies (she wasn't _expecting_ anything bad to happen but, as she'd learned, it was better to be prepared) away into cabinets. "So who _are_ you meeting, then?" she asked, somewhat distracted by a label on a box of cereal. "Business associate? Hope it isn't, I might get _jealous_." She pressed her back against his chest with a grin and then bent over to store the box in one of the lower cabinets. "But, you know, you could always make up for it when you get back." She turned to face him with a coy smile. She glanced once at Jeannie Rose and then pulled his undershirt up to check the bandage. It was holding well. Then she pulled back, wrinkling her nose.

Somewhere in the apartment, there was the poignant stench of old blood, and it certainly wasn't coming from his wound.

She put down the package she'd been holding onto the counter and then turned again to look at him. She reached out a hand to brush his hair and then pulled it away. She stared at it a moment, frowned, and washed the dried blood off of it in the sink, being sure not to let Jeannie Rose see. Personal hygiene was _definitely_ something they'd have to work on. "Might want to take a shower before you go," she suggested, packing the rest of the perishables away in the fridge.

She went to the kitchen table, where she'd set up her laptop earlier that morning, and turned it on with a sigh. Time to see if she could find anything about the Great White. Online, likely not, unless she could somehow find a way to hack into the GPD storage database.

Then again, if it was as easy as that, her father could have just gotten someone else to do it. She sighed and again promised herself that she'd be out of Gotham the moment she finished her father's request (not order; she didn't obey _orders_) and found Kitty. And, of course, figured out this entire business involving Jack. She shook her head. Later.

"Prettier than you?" he chuckled, putting his arms around her shoulders and holding her against his chest. "Never." He pressed his cheek against hers, rocking her slightly. "And you don't have to worry about me," he assured her. "I'd never seek out another business partner. They just wouldn't have the same…" He grinned, resting his chin on her shoulder. "_…Perks._"

He let her go, letting her go about putting things away, and leaned against the counter, watching her put groceries away. He grinned as she bent over to put something away, but decided to stay silent about it. "Well, truth be told," he said, stretching, "I'm just going to have a talk with an associate of sorts… a _male_ associate… a _straight_ male associate… who isn't involved in the industry of crime." He rolled his shoulders back with a satisfied exhale. "We just wanted to have a little talk about… _things._" He looked back at Jeanette with a wry smile. "But that certainly doesn't mean I can't make up for it when I get back," he added, raising his eyebrows.

He leaned back against the counter, watching her as she lifted his undershirt to check his bandage. "Checkin' out my body?" he joked in a low tone. He ran a hand slowly across his abdomen. "You know you want this," he said, giving her a ridiculous, seductive grin. "You know you do." Then she reached up towards his hair. She had not been fooled for a moment by his change of clothes. He leaned against the counter again, nodding along with her suggestion. "Yeah," he said, biting his lip. "Might want to do that."

Jeannie Rose put away a grocery that she had taken from the bags while Jeanette and Napier had been distracted by one another and smiled, satisfied with herself. She went back to the counter, standing on her toes to see if anything was left to put away, but saw that Jeanette had taken care of the rest of the groceries. She paused a moment, then moved back over to Napier and tugged on his pants-leg. Napier looked down at her, surprised. "And what can I do for you?" he asked. Jeannie Rose held up her arms.

"Pick me up," she insisted.

Napier hesitated. "But you just told me to put you down," he said, confused.

"I was helping Miss Jeanette," Jeannie Rose explained. "I want up now. Pick me up!"

Napier paused another moment, then reached down and picked up the girl under her arms, pulling her up into a comfortable sitting position in his arms. It was still a bit awkward, as he had never really held a child before, but, he guessed, he would get used to it in time. Jeannie Rose put her arms around his neck and laid her head on his chest, closing her eyes. "Thank you, Daddy," she said. Then she yawned.

Napier turned away from Jeanette, moving out of the kitchen into another part of the apartment, hoping to escape her critical ears. "Are you sleepy from that shopping trip?" he asked in a quiet voice, looking down at his daughter in his arms, bouncing her ever so slightly. "Do you want to go to bed? Or do you want to stay here, with Daddy?"

Jeannie Rose buried her face in his chest, holding tighter around his neck with her little arms. "I wanna stay with Daddy," she said. She yawned again. Then she rested her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes.

Napier watched her for a long moment, a faint smile turning up the corners of his mouth. He fingered a lock of her honey hair, then sighed and turned back into the kitchen, moving to the table and sitting down in one of the other chairs. He watched Jeanette working on her laptop, just studying her. Then he checked his watch. It was past two, nearing three. He returned his hand to its original position, supporting Jeannie Rose, and smiled at Jeanette.

"How long do these naps last?" he whispered.

The computer let out a quiet _beep_, and Jeanette leaned back with a sigh. Either she'd gotten rusty, or the Gotham Police Department had gotten smarter. They'd upgraded their firewalls, it seemed; she couldn't get past the site's security to get into the database. That was one lead gone.

She looked up from the computer screen and smiled at the little girl in Jack's arms. Poor little thing was exhausted, it seemed. "I got her up too early, after all that excitement from yesterday," she commented, inspecting the girl. Then she shrugged. "Could be a few hours, could be half an hour. You never know with someone her age." She looked back down at the screen and tapped her fingers in slight irritation. "It might be best to put her to bed in her room."

Then she sighed and looked back up. "Do you know anything about someone named Warren White? I think he's called Great White in the less reputable circles," she added. Since she couldn't find anything on the internet, Ozzie would probably be her best source of information, but she didn't particularly want to deal with the questions that would accompany his answers. It couldn't hurt to ask Jack about it.

After all, she reminded herself, he may have worked with the man in the time since he'd gotten out of Arkham. White seemed like a pretty big name in Gotham's underworld.

"A few hours?" Napier asked, readjusting the girl in his arms and holding her warm little form close to himself. He rested his cheek against her soft curls and sighed, watching Jeanette. "I don't _have_ a few hours," he said in an undertone, just loud enough for Jeanette to hear him. He thought about his statement for a moment. He did not have to be at the Iceberg until eight. It was not even three yet. That gave him a good five hours to hang around Jeanette's apartment, taking care of his daughter. He looked back at Jeanette then. "Well, I _might _have a few hours..." he said. He paused again. Then he repented, "Okay, I have a few hours, but..." He made a face. "My arms will fall asleep."

He sighed and looked down at Jeannie Rose, pulling one hand out from beneath her to stroke her soft hair. He was amazed at how calming she was to him, when he had just been on a homicidal adrenaline high less than an hour ago. Now his heart rate was slow and calm and his Joker mindset had been pushed to the back of his psyche. He rested his cheek against Jeannie Rose's head again and looked back at Jeanette, watching her. He was a lucky man, he told himself, to have such beautiful people in his life. Then he smiled.

"You know," he said, holding Jeannie Rose gently against his chest as she slept, "after all of this... all this Great White nonsense, and Batman garbage, and all that... we could just leave." His smile widened a bit. "Run away to Italy or something and wreak some havoc there." He looked back down at Jeannie Rose. "Or maybe just... settle down, and..." He paused. "...Have one of our own," he said. He stared at Jeannie Rose for another long moment, then looked back up at Jeanette, hoping she got his not-so-subtle hint.

Napier stared at Jeanette for a moment, then stood again, hoisting Jeannie Rose back into a comfortable position in his arms. "Great White?" he asked. "Yeah, I've heard of him. Played cards with him once. Then he tried to proposition me for some job..." He shook his head. "I don't remember what it was, though," he admitted. "He made less and less sense as the night wore on... or maybe it was me..." He paused a moment, then commented thoughtfully, "That was some good wine." Then he looked back at Jeanette, totally oblivious. "I know a little bit about him, though," he told her. "Maybe I can help you out."

Napier crossed over to stand behind Jeanette, looking over her shoulder, and frowned. "Hm," he said. "I would suggest you beat the shit out of it until it does what you want... but you might not want to take my advice." He raised his eyebrows, wetting his lips. "That looks expensive." He half-smiled at her, playing with Jeannie Rose's curls. "But in all seriousness..." His grin widened a bit. Then he cleared his throat. "Really, though," he tried again, "Great White is a big talker with a small dick. Lucky for me, I've got no money in the bank, or directly traceable loved ones he can take out, so I can say that. But others of us... aren't so unsuccessful in life."

He swallowed, sitting back down across from Jeanette, and put a hand on the table, as if to further indicate his point. "Warren White is one of those guys who you aren't really sure why you're afraid of 'em, 'cause they seem like one big joke... but every time you see 'em, you just know they're plotting to do something bad to you." He tapped his temple with one finger. "He gets inside your head," he said.

Napier moved forward slightly, making sure Jeannie Rose was safely asleep against his chest. Then he went on, "See, guys like me... we're a little nuts on the outside. Something just isn't right up here." He indicated his forehead. "We like to do unpredictable things. People live in fear because they don't know if they're next, or if their loved one is next, but always, _always,_ people live in fear, and they're prepared for it, and they think they can do something to prevent it." He nodded, seeming a bit bitter. "Guys like me... we're _avoidable._ But guys like Warren White..." He wet his lips, leaning in a little closer to Jeanette. "They're even scarier because not only are they _sane..._ they're _smart._"

He nodded, leaning back slightly in his chair. "People know if they've been targeted by White. Oh, they know. And the problem is, once you've been targeted by White, no matter what you do, no matter where you hide, or what you do, or who you fuck, you're going to end up knifed up the ass, to, uh... to put it bluntly." He cleared his throat again. "Warren White is scary because he's meticulous, and he always follows through. See me... I'm spontaneous. I always follow through, but you never know where it's coming from, and it's always quick. Warren White... he likes to drag it out. Prolong the torture, as it were." He nodded to himself, his eyes straying. "Prolong the torture," he repeated, almost thoughtfully.

Then his eyes returned to Jeanette's face. "He's got a new flame now," he told her, wetting his lips. "Selina something. Real curvy, blonde, got great..." He put a hand in front of his chest, hesitated, and then said, "...posture." He paused, then dropped his hand, returning it to his daughter's hair. "But did you hear what he did to his last squeeze?" He leaned in closer to her, wetting his lips. "He caught her with another man... and he fed both of them to his prize dogs." He nodded, leaning back in his chair. "True story," he said. "But White, he paid off the jury and got off. They said it was the dogs, attacked both of them." He scoffed. "Dogs can't fire guns, and those two were shot at least three times apiece."

Napier looked at Jeannie Rose for a moment, stroking her soft hair. Then he looked back at Jeanette and leaned forward slightly again. "Don't," he warned her, "mess with Warren White." Then he looked at Jeannie Rose again. "She doesn't seem like she's going to wake up anytime soon," he commented. He stood from his chair, making sure she was still secure in his arms. "Can you help me put her to bed?" he asked Jeanette, nudging her slightly. "I think she's welded around my neck." He grinned, slightly embarrassed to be asking for Jeanette's help to remove the little girl, and shrugged. "Child's got a grip like a sloth," he said.

It _was_ sort of endearing, Jeanette decided, watching Jack slowly warm up to his daughter. Sure, he still had almost no idea what to do with the girl, but he'd get better. He could complain all he wanted. He _liked_ it. She grinned and nodded towards the girl's bedroom, leading the way.

His view on White didn't surprise her; it was like most she'd heard. Some little man who thought he was a big shot and liked to get his way. In all honesty, he didn't seem like someone she ought to be worried about, especially when compared to the threats her father had made if she _didn't_, as Jack said, "mess around" with White. So that's exactly what she had to do. She suppressed another shudder, and smiled easily. "Don't worry about _me_," she insisted as she pushed open the bedroom door. "I've worked with men like him before. I'll be just fine."

Jeanette took Jeannie Rose's hands, wrapped in what really was a sloth's grip around her father's neck, and gently pried them apart, taking the little girl into her own arms and moving to the bed. She pulled back the covers with one hand, keeping the girl's head against her shoulder with another. Then she tucked the girl in, pulling the covers up and kneeling down to make sure she was still asleep.

"She'll be a bit clingy for a while, you know," she commented quietly, watching Jeannie Rose breathe. "She's been alone too long for someone her age. She'll want you to be around all the time, giving her attention." She paused and pulled the sheets up to the girl's chin, frowning, then looked up at Jack. "Can you do that? Can you commit to something like that?" She stood up. "Because I don't want to see her get hurt that badly. She's just five, Jack. She's been through more than most people go through their whole lives." She glanced back down at Jeannie Rose, so quiet and content and absolutely oblivious to the conflict she was causing, and then sighed and left the room.

"I…" Napier hesitated. It was a tall order, he realized, staying around to be the father-figure for a girl Jeannie Rose's age, and he was not sure he could do it. He was not exactly 'Daddy' material, he knew, no matter how he would like to think of himself. He put his hands into his pockets as he watched Jeanette tucking the little girl into bed. Then again, Jeanette was not exactly 'Mommie' material, and yet there she was, taking care of Jeannie Rose as if she were her own daughter. A faint smile curved up one side of Napier's lopsided mouth. If Jeanette could do it, why could he not?

Because Jeanette was not a homicidal sociopath who could trade off psyches at the drop of a hat, he reminded himself. If he got too close to Jeannie Rose, then there was no question that she would one day be subjected to his less amiable Joker side. That thought was enough to send chills down Napier's spine. If there was one thing he did not want, it was for his little girl to be around him when he snapped and went back to the Joker persona he had acquired after the night he had thought that she and her mother had died.

Napier looked away, watching as Jeanette exited the room. He could not say anything; if he promised to what she had said, she would hold him to it, and then, if he broke his promise, she would never look at him the same. This time it was not just about him and her; it was about Jeannie Rose, and that made it about so much more. She was just a little girl, a precious little girl – _his_ precious little girl. He looked back at Jeannie Rose, sleeping peacefully in her bed, and sighed. Then he turned away from her and exited the bedroom as well, following Jeanette and closing the door behind him.

Napier stared at Jeannie Rose's door for a long moment. Then he looked back at Jeanette, trying to keep his sadness at his own inadequacy out of his expression, and offered a faint, false smile. "I'm gonna… go start getting ready to go," he said, indicating towards the guest bedroom. He glanced down at his outfit. "I'll… find something to wear," he mumbled. Then he turned away and headed towards the guest bedroom.

If Jeanette had been looking for a way to make him feel like a complete bastard, she had succeeded admirably.

. . .

Another day wasted with walking, walking, and more walking. Flick sighed and disrupted her stride with a skip. Well, at least her legs were getting a good workout. Hell, she'd be able to run a fucking _marathon_ after this. The walking wasn't so bad.

It was the boredom she really couldn't stand. Crane had promised opportunities for some pyrotechnics, but all she'd done so far was blow up a house and flame two places that, in the grand scheme of things, didn't really matter. She sighed and scuffed a foot on the ground, brushing her light bangs out of her eyes. So much for having fun.

Her eyes lifted then, glimmering, and locked onto Crane's back. Fine. If he wasn't going to let her have any fun, she'd just have to create some herself. It was time to take things into her own hands. She hoped Crane didn't have any plans for that night (she winced at that thought and glanced at Kitty, being towed along by Goodhart as usual). It was time for Flicker to make a grand re-entry into the public eye.

. . .

Grace Balin pulled the shy, pudgy little man after her as she entered the Iceberg Lounge, smiling amiably to Tally as she passed him, and made her way straight to the bar, where she sat down, indicating for the little man to sit beside her on one of the stools. Grace looked up and down the bar, and finally caught sight of Maggie, down at the end, mixing up a drink for one of the midday patrons. "Yoo-hoo!" Grace called, leaning forward on her stool and waving to Maggie. "Magpie, darling!"

Maggie looked up at the sound of her nickname, and quickly finished mixing the patron's drink. She set the drink down in front of the man and moved down the bar to where Grace sat, leaning over the bar and giving the older, heavier woman a hug. "Gracie!" she exclaimed. "Oh, goodness, it's good to see you! It's been so long!"

"Maggie, darling," Grace said, returning the hug. "I've been insanely busy lately. Research and all that."

"Oh, that's right," said Maggie, pulling out of the hug and indicating in no particular direction. "You work up at the aquarium, don't you? Doing research on the whales?"

"That's right," said Grace, nodding. "I've been spending more time there, since Terry passed away…"

"Terry died?" exclaimed Maggie. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Gracie… he was a good man."

"Yes, I miss him," said Grace with a sigh, "but he's in a better place now." Then Grace turned to the pudgy little man sitting beside her. "Maggie, I'd like you to meet someone," she said. "This is Arnold Wesker."

"N-nice to meet you, ma'am," said Arnold in a small, stuttering, nasal voice, offering her a tight smile. He was not very tall, but he more than made up for it in girth. Greying brown hair collected above his ears, but the top of his head was bald and shiny. Where he should have had a neck instead was a large, colourful bowtie. He peered at Maggie through thick, round coke-bottle glasses. He carried a duffel-bag by his side, seeming almost overly protective of it. He offered Maggie a small, pudgy hand to shake.

Maggie smiled endearingly at him and took the hand, shaking it graciously. "It's very nice to meet you, Arnold," she said, almost as if she were speaking to a child. Then she turned back to Grace. "So are you and Arnold here...?"

"Oh, heavens, no!" Grace exclaimed, putting a hand to her chest and laughing heartily. "Arnold is just looking for someplace where he can use his talents to support himself, and I thought you and Ozzie might be able to help him out."

Maggie seemed almost taken aback. "Well, I don't know about Ozzie," she said, "but I'd be willing to take a look and see what he can do. It can't hurt."

"You're absolutely right," said Grace. She turned back to Arnold. "Why don't you go ahead and pull out your little toy, Arnold?" she said.

"It's not a toy," Arnold mumbled, pulling his duffel-bag into his lap.

"Of course it isn't," Grace answered. She leaned over towards Maggie, cupping a hand around her mouth to whisper in Maggie's ear, and Maggie leaned forward to listen. "Poor thing hasn't been able to find a job in years," she said. "I think he may have suffered some kind of trauma... this is the only thing he can really do anymore."

Maggie nodded, looking back up as Wesker opened the duffel-bag and pulled out a large wooden puppet. The puppet seemed to have been dropped, or burned, because one side of its face was completely covered in some kind of scarring. It was dressed in the typical clothing of a movie mobster, and in one hand it held an alarmingly life-like machine gun. Wesker poised the puppet on one of his hands and looked down at it. He was about to open his mouth to start talking when he was cut off.

"What's going on over here?" asked Cobblepot, walking up to the group. He hesitated a moment, then his face split into a wide, gleeful grin and he opened his arms wide. "Gracie, my darling girl," he said, beaming. "It's been so long... wherever have you been hiding? Have you finally decided to leave that husband of yours for me, darling?"

"Oh," said Grace, "Terry's dead."

Cobblepot paused, his smile disappearing. Then it was right back up. "Even better!" he exclaimed. He moved to Grace and embraced her tightly, and she hugged him back just as firmly. Then he let go of her and took a step back. "Gracie, it's been hell without you here, absolute hell," he said, shaking his head. "Wherever did you go? Are you still working at that dreadful fish tank?"

"Yes, Ozzie, I'm still working at the aquarium," Grace answered, smiling.

Cobblepot shuddered. "Dreadful place," he said. "I'd never be able to work there. I'd never get the scent of fish out of my clothes." He paused, then leaned forward, almost burying his face in Grace's cleavage. Then he moved back, away from her, with a smile. "Though you seem to have done it quite well," he said.

Grace laughed, waving a hand in his direction. "Oh, Ozzie, you're such a kidder," she said, shaking her head. Maggie cleared her throat. Grace glanced over at her, then back at Ozzie with a smile. "Oh, dear," she said in an undertone, "I don't think Magpie is amused."

Cobblepot shrugged, looking up at Maggie. "Lighten up, Magpie," he said.

Maggie stared at him, unamused. "I'll certainly try, Os," she said, monotone.

Then Cobblepot looked over at Arnold and paused. There was a long moment of silence. Then he said, "Nice doll."

"Ozzie," said Grace, indicating Arnold, "this is Arnold Wesker."

Cobblepot stared at him, incredulous. "Is it, now?" he asked.

"Arnold was just looking for someone who would hire him and his special talents," Grace went on, putting a hand on Wesker's arm. "Why don't you show Mister Cobblepot what you can do, Arnie?"

Wesker stared in slight horror at Cobblepot, then shifted uncomfortably on his barstool, putting the puppet into plain sight in his lap. Then he cleared his throat. "Hey you," the puppet's mouth moved, but Wesker's did not, spewing out its words in a biting, gangster-like voice. Cobblepot raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, you," the puppet went on. "What're you lookin' at, blondie? You got a problem?" The puppet scoffed. "Listen up, nancy-boy," it said, pointing at Cobblepot with its machine gun. "This guy here needs a job, an' he needs it bad. So you'd do good t' give it to 'im, see?"

Wesker looked horrified. Grace and Maggie stared at the puppet in surprise. Cobblepot's expression of stunned silence did not change. There was a long moment of silence. Then Cobblepot burst out laughing. Maggie, Grace, and Wesker all looked at him in surprise, but Cobblepot just kept on laughing. A faint, hesitant smile hinted at the edges of Wesker's mouth. Then Cobblepot looked up, his face pink with laughter.

"I love this guy!" he said, indicating Wesker, trying to catch his breath. He chuckled again, then waved a hand in Wesker's general direction. "You're hired," he said. "Maggie, give the man an advanced paycheck." He laughed again, putting a hand to his chest. "You're too much, Mister Wesker!" he said. Then he turned, still laughing, and walked away.

Grace looked over at Wesker in surprise, then over at Maggie. "I think he likes the puppet," she said.

. . .

Jeanette looked up from where she sat at the table for a long moment when Jack came back into the main room. He seemed...bothered. She frowned and looked back down at the screen. There was nothing else to be coaxed from the internet about White. It seemed he didn't leave his personal information floating around in cyberspace. It figured; he was smarter than that, or so she'd heard.

So she shut the lid of the laptop and went over to the phone, dialing in the number for the Lounge without second thought. She'd just have to hope Ozzie didn't ask many questions. And what if he didn't answer? She wasn't going to talk to him in _person_ about this.

She sighed in relief when the phone was picked up on the third ring.

"Hey, Os. It's Jeanette. Just wondering if you could give me any information on that White fellow you introduced me to the other day." She paused, glanced at the bedroom from which Jack still hadn't emerged, and kept her voice quiet. "Contact information. That sort of thing."

Cobblepot was still chuckling when he felt his phone start to vibrate in his pocket. He glanced down, then pulled his phone from his pocket and opened it, putting it up to his ear. "Hello?" he asked. "Oh, hello, Jeanette, dear!" He listened for a moment, stuffing his other hand into his pocket as he nodded along with her, and frowned slightly. "Contact information?" he asked. "Warren White? My dear, I do hope you're not going to take him up on his vulgar offer."

Cobblepot glanced back over towards the bar, where Maggie was talking with Grace and Wesker, and turned to the back room door. He opened it, flipping on the lights, then shut and locked it behind himself, making sure no one could overhear his conversation. "If you really want it," he said with a sigh, "then I'll tell you, luv…" He paused, still hesitant, then said, "Warren White owns a casino in the Narrows. I'd expect you'd be able to find him there. It's not exactly hidden… seeing as White owns most of this place, despite what they tell you about Bruce Wayne in the papers, or about Harvey Dent's jurisdiction…"

Cobblepot let out a deep breath. "If they give you a hard time, just tell them you're a friend of mine," he said. "They'll be sure to let you in, since White owes me. I won't go into that, but that's all you have to know." He glanced back towards the door, making sure no one had managed to open it and was listening in on him. "If you can't find him in the casino, there's an underground dog-fighting ring around back. Again, just tell the person at the door that you know me, though I don't think they'll give you a hard time… just show a little skin."

Cobblepot grimaced at the thought. "I'm sorry," he said. "Though I have no idea why you would want to get in contact with Warren White… he's the last man on earth I'd think you would want to have anything to do with." He let out a long sigh. "Though I've been wrong before…" he said. He took a deep breath. "Be careful, luv," he told Jeanette. Then he hung up.

Dent checked his watch as he made his hurried way into the Lounge, looking around for Cobblepot. If he did not make this quick, then he would be late for his date with Rachel. It was already past six, and the Aquarius was almost on the other side of Gotham from the Iceberg. He sighed, irritated, and made his way over to the bar, tapping his knuckles impatiently against the counter, looking around for someone to tell him where he could find Cobblepot.

Grace looked over at him and raised her eyebrows. "Hey, big boy," she said, nudging him with her elbow.

Dent glanced over at her, incredulous. "Hi," he said, uninterested.

Grace looked slightly taken aback, but she said nothing to indicate it. Instead, she smiled at Dent. "You seem like you've got a lot on your mind," she said, sliding a little closer to him. "Wanna tell me about it? I'm sure the famous _Harvey Dent_ must be _stressed out._"

"No, _thank_ you," said Dent, getting irked, moving away from her. He looked down the bar again. "Where is Maggie…?" he asked, annoyed.

"Maggie's busy," said Grace. "Can I help you?" She batted her eyelashes at him. "I'm a scientist. I'll bet I can determine what's bothering you."

"No, that's _quite_ all right," said Dent, more than a little vexed. "I just need to see Os…"

"Ozzie's busy, too," said Grace. "Are you _sure_ I can't help you?"

"Yes!" Dent exclaimed, turning to her. "I am _very _sure you can't help me!"

"Are you all right, Harvey?"

Dent turned to see Maggie staring at him in shock. He cleared his throat, making sure his hair was still all in place, and took a deep breath. "_Yes,_ Maggie," he said. "I am just… _fine._" He offered her a tight, flustered smile, moving away from Grace. "I'm looking for Os," he said.

"Harvey Dent!" Cobblepot slapped him on the back. "How are you doing, my good man?"

Dent offered Cobblepot a strange, strained smile. "I'm doing all right, Os," he said, checking his watch again. "Listen, I need to ask a favour of you…" He glanced over his shoulder at Grace and Wesker. "Can we go somewhere else...?" he asked.

Cobblepot waved him off. "Don't mind them, they're friends of mine," he said. "What can I do for you, my good man?"

Dent frowned. Then he looked back up at Cobblepot. "I need a reservation here for Tuesday," he said. "Can you make it as good as the last time?"

"Ah, another date with your little friend from the mayor's office?" asked Cobblepot with a smile. "What was his name, again...?"

"Shawn," answered Dent shortly. "Yes, it's with Shawn. Look, I've got to go..." He checked his watch again. It was almost seven, now. He had to get going. "Thanks so much, Os, I owe you," he said, turning to go. As he reached the door of the lounge, he heard from behind him,

"Harvey Dent's a _queer._"

Dent froze, then slowly turned around to see who had spoken. Wesker looked horrified, but the puppet was looking right at Dent. "Harvey Dent is a _cocksucker,_" the puppet sneered. "Ooh, I can't wait to tell the world. Harvey Dent likes the _penis –_"

"DO YOU WANT TO DIE?!" Dent shouted, running forward and grabbing Wesker by the front of his shirt. The puppet clattered to the floor, and Wesker whimpered and tried to hide in his jacket.

"P-please!" he whimpered. "I said nothing!"

"Oh, who was it, then, your little puppet?!" Dent demanded. "Don't play dumb with me, you fucking scumbag! I know what you said, and you'd better keep your goddamn trap shut, unless you want me to kill you!" Dent paused, panting, towering over poor, cowering Wesker, and then looked up. Everyone in the Lounge was totally silent, staring at him. He hesitated another moment, then let go of Wesker. Then, with a huff of angry, indignant breath, he turned and stormed out of the Iceberg.


	51. Chapter Fifty

Selina stared at the dog, and it stared right back, snarling and barking viciously at her. White had asked her to meet him down here, and it was probably because he wanted to get his dogs good and riled before their next fight, and Selina was the best woman for the job. All of White's dogs hated Selina for some reason unknown to either of them, and every time the dogs saw her, they went crazy. Selina did not care much for the animals either, so it was a fair trade, as far as she was concerned. She did not particularly want the affections of White's dumb animals, anyways.

Selina sneered at the dog and took a long drag of her cigarette, blowing out the smoke in the canine's face. "Fuck you, Fido," she said under her breath.

"His name is Duke," White corrected her, walking up behind her with a fresh Cuban cigar clenched between his teeth, "and he doesn't take kindly to second-hand smoke." He took the cigar from his mouth and let out a puff of smoke, himself. "But whatever works for you, doll face," he said with a shrug. "If that's the most creative way you can think of to get him worked up into a lather, then by all means. Smoke away."

Selina turned to look at White in half-disgust. "You asked me to meet you down here so I could rile up your dog, Warren?" she asked.

White shrugged. "You sound surprised, my dear," he said, putting the cigar back into his mouth. "You know you're the only one can get 'em all worked up like that." He looked at Duke, who was glaring at the two of them, snarling, and grinned. "Boo!" he said, kicking the mesh cage. Instantly the dog jumped up against the mesh and started trying to bite through it, barking viciously and slathering all over the cage. White laughed and indicated the dog. "You see?" he asked, looking over at Selina. "You're magic."

He puffed at his cigar for a long moment, and the two stood in silence, looking in at the brooding dog. Then Selina turned to White. "You know, you promised me you'd get me a date with Bruce Wayne if I got you that Joker freak," she reminded him, her cigarette smoking in her hand. "You gonna follow through on that?"

White took his cigar from his mouth and smirked. "Really?" he asked. "You think getting him over to my apartment is enough for me to hook you up with Bruce Wayne?" He looked over at her, incredulous. "Darlin', if I'd known I had to do as little as you did to get him to come over, I would've just done it myself." He shook his head, chuckling, and put the cigar back between his teeth. "Bruce Wayne," he said, almost mocking Selina.

Selina glared at him. "Oh, well, _excuse_ me, Warren," she said, looking away from him. She took a drag of her cigarette and blew out the smoke slowly. "Next time, I'll let _you _have sex with him."

White paused, then turned to look at her. Selina turned to look at him as well. Then White looked away again, clearing his throat. "Bruce Wayne, you say?" he asked. He looked back at Selina. "He's got reservations for tonight at the Aquarius," he said, taking his cigar from his mouth and tapping the ashes onto the floor. "He's got a girl with him, though, so…"

"I'm hotter," Selina countered without even thinking. She looked over at White. "Book me a reservation."

"Already did," White replied, returning his cigar to his mouth. "Seven tonight. Don't be late." He looked at his watch and raised his eyebrows. "Almost four," he said. He looked back up at her. "You should start getting ready soon. Wouldn't want to miss out."

Selina smiled at him. "You're the best, Warren," she said. Then she looked back at the dog, stared at it for a long moment, and then tossed her cigarette at the cage. Then, with a turn of her heel, she was off to get ready for her date at the Aquarius.

. . .

Fox set his pen aside and read over the words he had written, then folded up the piece of paper and put it in his breast pocket with a heavy sigh. He had been going over what he would say in Jessica's eulogy for the last few days, and nothing he had come up with had sounded quite right. He had finally decided to say whatever came to mind when he stood to give the speech in remembrance of his sister; words from the heart were better than anything he could put down on paper.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair, and looked over at a framed photograph that sat on his desk. It was a picture of Fox and his sister at her graduation from medical school. He was hugging her tightly in her cap and gown, and she was holding her certification proudly for everyone to see. Fox smiled faintly and picked up the photograph, looking hard at it. He would ask for Jessica to be buried with this photograph, he decided. It would be symbolic of all the happy times they had together, and there was nothing more he wanted for her than to be happy, wherever she was now.

Jessica's funeral had been scheduled to fall on Monday, the strangest day for a funeral, but Fox supposed that, with the Joker running amok, they had to use any day possible for things like that – seeing as there were so many more deaths to deal with, so many more funerals that had to be planned and carried out. He frowned, thinking about it, suddenly wondering how many other murders had been committed since, and even before, Jessica's. He was lucky to have gotten a funeral date at all, he decided. The people in the funeral business were probably getting an economic boost from the Joker's homicidal streak. The thought made him shudder.

Fox set the photograph back down on his desk and folded his hands across his ribcage, staring at the picture. Then his gaze moved to the phone. It was really unfair of him, he thought, to cut off all communication from Bruce Wayne. It was not Wayne's fault that the Joker had managed to con his way into Wayne Manor and kill Jessica. The Joker had probably done it because he was thrilled by the challenge, not because Jessica was in any way special. At this, Fox frowned. Jessica was special, even if the Joker did not think so.

Then he paused. Even before the Joker had gone into Wayne Manor to kill Jessica, he had been looking for her. He had traced her to Gotham General and gotten her room number, so it was no surprise that he had somehow figured out that she had been moved to Wayne Manor – probably from the clueless people at Gotham General, trying to be as helpful as possible, not knowing that they were condemning an innocent woman to death. Fox picked up the photograph and stared at it again. Jessica's death had not really been Bruce Wayne's fault at all, he realized. If there was anyone to blame, it was Gotham General.

Fox set the photograph back down on the desk and picked up the telephone, dialing in the familiar number of Wayne Manor, and waited for someone to pick up.

. . .

Wayne pulled his Lamborghini up into the driveway of Wayne Manor and parked it, then got out, smoothing out the front of his suit and looking up towards the house. For some reason he could not quite place, the sight of Wayne Manor made him almost sad. Wayne stared at the large mansion for another long moment, trying to decide what exactly seemed to be the gloomy raincloud that hung over the head of the place, and then, unable to decide, he heaved a heavy sigh as he started up the stairs towards the front doors.

Not much had been going well for Wayne lately. Rachel had grown tired of waiting for him to give up his double-life of Batman and had left him for Harvey Dent, whom Wayne was almost certain was not the White Knight he appeared to be. Then he had fought and successfully captured the Joker, only to have the GCPD be outsmarted by the psychopath more times than he cared to count. Then there was the incident with Jessica… and Fox quitting WayneTech, which had directly affected Wayne Enterprises' sales. It killed Wayne to have to go into a partnership, especially with someone who considered him with as much contempt as Noah Sweets seemed to, but it was inevitable. If Wayne Enterprises were to suffer one more major blow while standing on its own, it might plunge into the depths of near bankruptcy.

The door opened for him, and Wayne stepped inside, shedding his coat and handing it off to Alfred. "I'm not sure if I can take much more of this," he admitted, turning to look mournfully at his butler as Alfred folded Wayne's coat over his arm. "All of this… _high society _nonsense. I might just go back to living on the streets in some foreign country."

"Well," said Alfred with a deep breath, "if you _do,_ just be sure to leave the car keys."

Wayne smiled. "Always got something witty to say, don't you, Alfred?" he asked.

Alfred smiled back. "I do try, Sir," he said. Wayne nodded, then turned and started for his upstairs dressing-room. Alfred followed closely behind. "And how was your meeting with the Sweets siblings, Master Wayne?" Alfred asked, his eyebrows raised in interest.

"He hates me, Alfred," Wayne replied with a heavy breath. "And she… I'm not sure if she knows the stock market from the shoe market." He reached the top of the stairs and turned towards his dressing-room.

"Going somewhere special tonight, Sir?" asked Alfred, lingering behind.

"I've got a date with Jenna Sweet," Wayne replied, pulling off his shirt and tossing it aside onto the back of a nearby chair.

Alfred moved forward and picked up the shirt, folding it over his arm with Wayne's coat. "She's certainly a far stretch from Miss Dawes, Sir," he commented, "if you don't mind me saying."

"It's not an actual _date,_ Alfred," Wayne told him, pulling open a drawer of his dresser and pulling out a crisp white dress shirt. "It's just for business." He held up the white shirt. "What do you think?" he asked. "Dressy enough?"

"Are you taking her to the opera, or to the drive-through?" Alfred asked.

Wayne raised his eyebrows. "Right," he said, tossing the shirt onto the back of the chair. He pulled out another shirt and held it up. "How about this one?" he asked.

"That one looks good," said Alfred, picking up the second discarded shirt with a nod.

Wayne nodded as well and slipped the shirt over his head, pulling it on, and then buttoned up the few last buttons that needed attending to. Alfred watched with a kind of patient observation. Then he looked up.

"Master Wayne," he said, "Mister Fox just called, not too long ago."

Wayne looked up in interest. "Fox?" he asked. "Fox called? What did he say?"

Alfred nodded. "Yes, Sir, he called," he said. "He asked if you would come to his sister's funeral tomorrow. He said it would mean the world to him if you would." Alfred let out a quiet, sad breath. "He says he knows it isn't your fault," he added. "And he also said he was sincerely sorry for saying it was."

Wayne stopped fiddling with his buttons, staring at Alfred. "I'll come," he said, nodding assuredly. He went back to fooling with his buttons. "Not only will I come," he said, "but I'll pay for the whole thing. No expense is too much." He held out a hand for his coat, and Alfred handed it to him. Wayne pulled his coat on over his dress shirt and buttoned it up. "Call the funeral home," he instructed Alfred. "Ask them to send the bill for Jessica's funeral to Wayne Enterprises." He smoothed out the front of his suit.

"How do I look?" he asked.

Alfred grinned at him. "Charming," he answered.

Wayne checked his Rolex. It was a little past five. Then he looked back up at Alfred. "Well, I've still got a little time," he said, smiling, suddenly feeling so much better about himself. "I'm going to go buy something that isn't for sale."

Alfred nodded, still smiling. "It's good to have you back, Sir," he said.

. . .

Wayne settled himself more comfortably into his seat at the table he had reserved at the Aquarius and picked up his wine glass, sipping at the cold water he had ordered while he waited for his date to arrive. He checked his Rolex. It was almost exactly seven o' clock. He was early, but that did not mean he should not be worried that his date would forget the time set for the dinner… or even that she was expected to arrive. Then again, he told himself with a sigh, she had not made much effort to arrive on time to their important business meeting, so there was no evidence that she should show up on time for this.

Wayne sighed and sipped at the cold water, then set it back down in front of him and picked up the menu. For him, this was not exactly an expensive place, but for the lesser elite, he was sure that going to someplace like this would be a rare occurrence. He scanned the tiny, curly font for something that looked good, but he was not really hungry. He was still thinking about earlier that day, when Alfred had told him that Fox had forgiven him. It was still fresh in his mind, and he was still glowing slightly from the effect of getting one of his best and oldest friends back.

Wayne set the menu down in front of him and folded his hands on top of it, thinking. If only tonight could go on without incident, it would be wonderful. If he could have a nice, quiet dinner with Jenna Sweets, perhaps get to know the girl a little better, and maybe even manage to get some of her brother's secretive plans for the company merge out of her – with the right sweet words and perhaps a little fine wine – without something going awry, it would be the best evening he had had in a long while. But the chances of that happening, especially in Gotham, with so many dangerous criminals on the loose, were slim to none.

Wayne let out a deep breath and picked up the menu again, scanning it. The least he could do was try to enjoy himself, for however short a time it lasted. He checked his Rolex again. He only hoped his date would arrive before trouble found him – which it had a way of doing at the most inopportune times.

Jenna smoothed down the ends of her fluttery summer dress. Maybe it was a _bit_ inappropriate to be wearing a low-cut, short cocktail dress to a supposed business dinner (in the current weather, no less; forty degrees might be chilly for something so skimpy). If her brother knew, he'd probably disapprove.

She grinned and playfully cupped her newly-curled hair in one hand. Hell, if he knew _anything_ about this dinner, he'd be more mad than a...a...

She frowned and put her hands on her hips, thinking hard for the right word. In the end, she gave up and trounced out of her room.

Noah glanced up from a packet of papers he'd been shuffling about aimlessly when she passed the dinner table. "Sheesh, you're finally dressed?" he said, standing slowly as he tucked the papers hurriedly back into their folder. He glared up at his sister. "Benjamin is nearly done with dinner..."

Jenna frowned. "What, Benjy didn't let you know?" She stared at her brother for a moment, then went to the walk-in closet near the door and began searching for some suitable shoes. Flats, definitely, since she had to drive to the restaurant herself and she didn't particularly feel like dying any time soon. "I'm eating out tonight. Got a date."

"Shocker." Noah made a face and sat once more, pulling the papers back out of the file now that he didn't have to attend to dinner. "Who is it this time, some supermodel? An actor? Can't be a politician; you'd _bore_ him to de..." A soft snicker interrupted him. Jenna emerged from the closet clasping a pair of pastel pink flats in her hands. She bent over and pulled them on.

"It's a _business friend,_ actually," she replied haughtily. Her brother thought he knew _everything_, did he? Well, she'd fix that nicely. "Bruce Wayne. Talked to him after that little meeting this morning." She ignored the look of absolute loathing and outrage on Noah's face as she pulled open one of the front double-doors. "Don't wait up for me." With a grin and a wink, she was gone, leaving Noah fuming.

She checked her watch a few minutes later as she screeched down the street in her Mini Cooper, eliciting a shriek of outrage and a few shouted profanities from her fellow drivers as she swerved in her lane. She righted the car at once, biting her lip. She was a _bit_ late. But she could always play off fifteen minutes as being fashionable. She nodded to herself. It was Bruce freaking _Wayne_, for chrissakes. It's not like he cared, anyways.

So when she entered the Aquarius and spotted Wayne almost immediately, looking slightly irritated, she sat down with only a short, "Sorry; got caught by my brother," as an apology. A playful grin tugged at the edges of her lips as she nodded her thanks to the waiter who set a glass of water down in front of her. "Bad day?" she asked Wayne.

Wayne looked up from checking his watch for what he felt was the hundredth time when he heard the familiar, upbeat voice of his date. He stared at her for a moment, slightly dazed, and then fixed a friendly, understanding smile across his face. "That's all right," he said, getting up from his seat and pulling out a chair for her to sit in. "I haven't been waiting long." He pushed the seat back in slightly when she seated herself, then crossed back to his own chair and sat down, looking at her.

"Your brother?" asked Wayne with a smile. "Well, he can be rather… how should I put it… demanding." Then a short chuckle escaped his lips. "But you know that better than I do, I guess," he told her. He finished off the water in his wine glass and then looked around for a waiter. Finally he saw one and flagged him down. The waiter was only too happy to come over and bend to Wayne's level with a genteel smile.

"What can I get for you, Mister Wayne?"

"Uh, get me a bottle of your best wine, the oldest date you've got," Wayne said. "Tonight's a special occasion."

"Of course," said the waiter, and he turned away, back to the kitchen.

Wayne turned back to Jenna then with a proud smile. "So, tell me about yourself, Jenna," he said. "What kind of things do you like to do? Or… buy?" He chuckled. "Sometimes I forget that I'm dealing with someone who's in the same league as I am." He fidgeted, slightly awkward in the stilted conversation. "But this is just a friendly business dinner, isn't it?" He smiled at her, then looked away, somewhat impatient for the waiter to return. "Just a friendly business dinner," he repeated under his breath.

"Bruce?"

Wayne looked up at the familiar voice, eyes wide. Rachel was standing across the dining-hall from him, staring at him, wearing a dazzling navy dress. Wayne was speechless for a moment, then asked, "Rachel?"

Rachel moved across the dining-hall towards the two of them, still looking somewhat surprised. "What are you doing here, Bruce?" she asked.

"I'm… on a date," Wayne said, indicating Jenna. "Rachel, this is Jenna Sweets, from Sweets, Inc."

"Pleasure," said Rachel, nodding to Jenna, still a little dazed. Then she turned back to Wayne. "Well, I was just waiting on Harvey to come, we were going to get dinner here, too…"

"Oh, you should join us," said Wayne, getting up from his seat. He motioned for one of the waiters to come over and push the next table over together with the one he and Jenna were sitting at.

"I don't think you can do that, Bruce," Rachel said.

"Oh, I can," Wayne assured her. "I own the place." The waiter quickly came over, took hold of the next table and pulled the two of them together, then moved the chairs over so that the now-larger table sat four people. Rachel looked on in slightly astonished horror, but Wayne grinned at her and indicated for her to take a seat. "Go on," he said. "Talk to us while you wait for Harvey."

"I, um…" Rachel began.

"Wayne?"

Wayne looked up, and a cold grin split his face when he saw Dent standing behind Rachel. "Harvey," he said. "Rachel was just saying how much she wanted the two of you to sit with the two of us."

Dent stared at Wayne, confused, then looked over at Rachel. Rachel shook her head, stunned, and shrugged, her mouth slightly open in wordless bewilderment. Then Dent looked back at Wayne and nodded. "O-okay," he said with a shrug. "We can do that." He started to move to pull out a chair for Rachel, but Wayne stood first and pulled the chair out, letting Rachel take her seat. He offered a smug, cold smile to Dent, and Dent hesitated before returning a baffled half-smile. Then Dent took his own seat across from Rachel, looking very out-of-place.

"What's good here?" Wayne asked, too enthused, picking up his menu and looking over it. "You know, the lobster looks good. I've never had the lobster here… I think I'll try it." He glanced over at Rachel. "Have you ever tried the lobster here?"

"Bruce, what are you doing?" Rachel hissed.

"Just enjoying myself on my date," Wayne answered. He turned to Jenna, taking her hand in his, and smiled at her. "It's a shame, Rachel, that you and Harvey aren't having as good a time as Jenna and I are."

Dent and Rachel exchanged bewildered looks. Then Dent turned to Jenna with an awkward smile. "So, uh… Jenna," he said, hoping he got her name right. "What do you think of, uh… Batman?"

"Batman? He's a nut!" Wayne answered before Jenna could. "A man who goes around in a bat suit _clearly_ has problems."

"I believe I was asking your date," Dent said, somewhat coldly. He and Wayne stared at each other for a long moment. Then Wayne shrugged and turned to Jenna with a smile.

"Yes, dear," he said, taking her hand again. "Do give us some insight on your views on the Bat."

Well, now Jenna had to decide whether she'd be able to forgive Bruce. Not only had he blatantly ignored her for another woman (one he used to date, no less!), but, worst of all (of course), he was insulting the Batman. She looked away at his snide comment about the city's self-appointed hero. She could forgive the flirting; after all, that was just politics in the great game of the social hierarchy. But Batman...

She frowned darkly and glanced down at the menu, offering Harvey and Rachel a tight smile when they sat down. Batman was no psycho. He was a _hero_, one of the few this town had left. She drew her hand away from Wayne's and replaced her icy look with a light grin. "Oh, Bats?" she said, flapping her hand a bit as if the two were old friends. "He's a _doll_ for trying to help out the city like he has been. And I don't think he's insane. He's too..." She paused, putting one finger on her lower lip, thinking. "Charismatic," she finally settled upon, totally ignorant of how silly it might make her sound, "for something like that."

Fortunately for her, the waiter returned with the wine at that moment, leaving her to smile at him with a nod as he filled up her glass. "You know, Mr. Dent..." She took a sip of wine, purposefully drawing out her comment. "I'm surprised you're not insanely jealous of the man. Seems like you two are in competition for the position of the city's savior." She grinned. "Harvey Dent, White Knight of Gotham's legal system, defender of justice..." Her head tilted to the side. "And Batman, the dark avenger." She giggled at the nickname. "The bane of dark alleys, the mysterious vigilante whose identity we're all dying to know."

She broke off, not wanting to sound too interested. "But what do I know? I barely keep up with all the criminal goings-on in this city, anyways. I'd suppose _you're_ pretty up-to-date on them, Miss Dawes?" She smiled at Rachel. Bookish, businesslike, boring: the three words Jenna would use to describe the woman. Not _her _style at all.

"Charismatic?" said Wayne with a laugh. "Really?" He turned back to look at Dent and Rachel. "'Cause I think he's _nuts._"

"So you've told us," said Dent slowly, picking up his utensils and turning them over in his hands. Wayne was obviously trying his already-worn-down patience, and he was trying his hardest to keep from exploding at him. He looked over at Rachel, who looked uncomfortable and awkward, and dropped his knife, putting his hand across the table to rest on her arm. Rachel looked up, surprised, and Dent smiled at her. "You doin' okay?" he asked.

Rachel hesitated, then smiled back. "Yeah," she said, nodding and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "I'm doing fine. Just a little… _flustered,_ is all."

Dent smiled understandingly at her. Then he turned back to Jenna, listening to her inquiry. "Well, I'm not a jealous man, Miss Sweets," he said with his signature politician's smile. "I do what I do, and… Batman does what he does." He glanced at Wayne, as if daring him to cut into his statement, then back at Jenna. "Of course I respect what Batman does," he added quickly. "I mean, who doesn't?"

Wayne raised his hand, sniffing slightly. Dent glared at him for a moment. Then Wayne looked up at him, lowering his hand. "Batman goes around beating up the bad guys," he said. "But he also destroys property and doesn't follow the simple laws laid down by the city – laid down by _you, _Harvey." He folded his hands in front of him, staring hard at Dent. "Of course, it's easy to admire and respect someone when you look at all the _good _they do," he said, "but it's also easy to overlook the _bad._"

"So you would rather we let the city fall prey to the hands of murderers and thieves, rather than entrust it to someone who would use – admittedly – unorthodox methods to keep it safe?" Dent asked, leaning forward to better get his point across. "You would rather we let men like the Joker run free with no fear of capture or punishment for their deeds?"

"And where exactly are the police in all of this?" Wayne asked, testy. "Have they fallen off the face of the earth? I mean, what does the city pay them for, if not to catch and punish criminals?"

"The GPD does all it can, but sometimes it needs the extra help," Dent said, intent, starting to get angry. "Can you blame them if they take the help of someone who cares about this city as much as they do?"

"Oh, so now the GPD is admitting to taking help from Batman?" Wayne asked coldly. "Because from what I remember, they were denying it at every turn. Have they changed their story now?"

"Listen, Wayne," said Dent, pointing at him, "Batman is a good man, a lot better than _you_ could ever hope to be, and he's done a lot more for this city than _you've_ ever done –"

"I think Batman is a good man," Rachel cut over him. She looked back at Jenna. "And there have been a few fringe cases involving the convicts that escaped from Arkham, and a few cases where the Joker's name has come up… but nothing important." She offered an uncomfortable, reassuring smile. "But that's the way it is, in the law business… a lot of legal work, and not a lot of excitement."

"Oh, there's _plenty_ of excitement in _my_ life," said Dent, turning back to Rachel. He took her hand in his and began to stroke it gently, smiling at her, starting to calm down. Rachel turned back to him with a confused smile. He grinned at her, then raised his eyebrows. Rachel opened her mouth in slight shock, then slapped his hand gently.

"Stop that!" she said quietly. "Not in front of Bruce and his date!"

"Oh, it's okay, Rachel," said Wayne, picking up his wine glass. "I've got plenty of excitement in my life, too." He raised his eyebrows at Jenna, toasted her, then took a long drink of wine. Then he set the glass down in front of him and let out a satisfied sigh. "Now _that_ is good stuff," he said, shaking his head.

"Collateral damage." Jenna just had to put in her own two cents, especially when it concerned Batsy. "We can nitpick all of the buildings and cars and _whatever_ the guy's destroyed, but in the end, what's the net gain? We've got more criminals than ever in jail, and even more running scared." She shrugged and laced her hands together on the table. "I know _I'd_ be willing to look past his silly outfit. What's necessary, is necessary."

She took another drink of her own wine before thinking to apologize. "Sorry, Bruce, I've got to take Mr. Dent's side on this one," she said with a smile and a shrug. That was all she'd say about the matter; he was forgiven, for now. After all, he had such a cute face.

She nodded along with Bruce, checking the clock on the wall nearby and then wondering why. She wasn't _bored_, was she? Politics had never been her thing, true, but she was at a table with the two most sought-after men in all of Gotham (and one of their dates; she nearly rolled her eyes at that). Yet, somehow, she found herself almost wishing that something would happen elsewhere in the city. It would give her an excuse to abandon her date.

Wayne turned to Jenna, slightly taken aback. He had no idea that Jenna was such a fan of Batman, or he would not have verbally attacked him quite so severely. He opened his mouth to say something when suddenly he was cut off by, "Bruce Wayne? Is that really the famous Bruce Wayne?" Wayne frowned at the unfamiliar voice and turned to see a curvy blonde making her way across the dining hall towards him, her slinky black dress slit up to her thigh, her high-arched feet delicate but sure in her glittering black heels. He smiled, confused, but still trying to seem as amiable as possible.

"That would be me," he said, turning to face her as she approached the table. "Can I help you?"

"Oh my god," she said, tossing one hand in the air in dramatic surprise. "I never thought I'd see the day when I would meet Bruce Wayne in the flesh." She put the hand to her supple chest, her silvery laughter fake and flirty. "I'm Selina," she said, holding out her hand to him. "Selina Kyle."

"It's, um... It's a pleasure, Miss Kyle," said Wayne, taking the hand delicately and giving it a slight squeeze.

"Oh!" said Selina, retrieving her hand as if embarrassed and laughing falsely again. "Call me Selina." She stared at the table, then around at the other people who were sitting with Wayne. "You seem to be having a party over here, Bruce," she said.

"Um, I prefer Mister Wayne, if you don't mind," said Wayne, seeming uncomfortable. He shot Jenna an apologetic, trapped look, then returned his gaze to Selina.

Selina ignored him, instead pointing to an empty spot at the end of the table. "Do you mind if I join you?" she asked.

"Um..." Wayne began to say, but again he was cut off.

"Sure!" said Dent, smiling at Selina. "Go ahead, pull up a seat. The more, the merrier, we always say. Don't we, Bruce?" He shot a smug grin to Wayne, who looked back at him, helpless.

"Uh, of course," he said, looking back at Selina. "We love, um... company." He half-indicated a nearby chair. "Go ahead and... join us," he said, his voice trailing off.

"Don't mind if I do," Selina said. She waved over one of the waiters, then pointed to the chair. The waiter moved the chair to the end of the table where Wayne sat, and then pulled it out for Selina to take a seat, which she did. Selina leaned on her elbows on the table, looking over at Wayne and batting her eyelashes flirtatiously. "So, Bruce," she said, emphasizing his name, "what in the world is a classy man like you doing in a place like this?"

"Oh, I think this place is plenty classy," Wayne replied. "In fact, that's why I bought it."

Selina giggled flirtatiously and slapped him lightly on the hand. "Oh, _stop_ it, you tease," she said. She leaned forward towards him, accentuating her cleavage. Wayne glanced down at it, then turned his eyes away, looking uncomfortable. "You know, I've heard all about you," she said. "About Wayne Enterprises... about how much of a playboy you are, with... all that money..." She leaned towards him further. "What do you do with all that money, Bruce?" she asked in a low tone. "You must be saving it for... something_ special._"

"We were just discussing Batman, Miss Kyle," Rachel jumped in, looking more than a little put off by Selina's antics. "Would you care to share some of your views on him?"

"I think the man's a nut," said Wayne, putting a hand to his chest, glad to have something to distract him from the uncomfortable innuendos that Selina was making. "Everyone at the table disagrees with me, though."

"It's because you're wrong," said Dent. "Batman is a good person."

"You're a good person," Bruce specified. "Batman is a vigilante. He just does what he does to show off. He doesn't really care about Gotham, he just likes to run around in a bat suit to prove something to himself."

"Oh, I agree with you, Bruce," said Selina, nodding. She turned back to Dent with a smirk. "Batman's nothing more than a jerk with a thing for dressing up." She laughed. "He was probably the kid who got beat up on the playground for his lunch money, and now he's going around beating up everyone who bullied him as a kid."

Wayne laughed at this, too, though his laughter sounded uncomfortable. "I like you," he said, nodding to Selina.

"I like you, too, Bruce," she said, turning back to him with a smile.

His laughter subsided, and he cleared his throat. Then he picked up the menu and looked at it again. "I'm thinking of getting the lobster," he told Selina. "Have you tried...?" His voice trailed off as he looked over and saw her taking a sip of wine out of his glass.

"Cheap stuff," she said, making a face as she set down the glass. Then she shook her head. "Don't get the lobster, it's terrible. Full of grease and trans fats... nasty stuff." She took the menu, making sure to touch his hand in the process. "Get the goose foie gras," she said, pointing to it.

Wayne turned in his seat and flagged down one of the waiters. "I'm ready to order," he told him. "Anyone else ready to order?" He turned to his date. "Jenna?" he asked.

Selina picked up the menu again and scanned it, then turned back to the waiter. "I'll have the escargot," she said, raising her eyebrows. "Not too heavy... I'm trying to keep my weight down." She laughed, hollow and fake, and set down her menu, leaning forward to emphasize her cleavage, and tucked a fallen lock of blonde hair behind her ear. Then she turned and looked at Jenna, and her smile faded into a disdainful sneer.

"Oh," she said, looking Jenna up and down. "You must be Bruce's date." She offered a cold, condescending smile, then turned back to Wayne and put her hand on his arm. "Can you get some Vin de paille to go with the food? It would be a lot better than _this_ stuff." She indicated the wine glass disparagingly.

Rachel stared at Selina, her mouth all but hanging open in disbelief, then turned to look at Dent. Dent was staring at Selina in almost the same kind of shock. Then he turned to look at Rachel. The two stared at one another in disbelief, then turned back to look at Selina in morbid fascination. Watching her was like watching a train wreck; it was hard to watch, but it was impossible to look away.

Wayne smiled patiently at Selina, then nodded. "Sure," he said, turning back to the waiter. "Bring us a bottle of that." Then he turned back to Jenna. "And what do _you _want, Jenna?" he asked.

"So I've heard all about you, Harvey Dent," said Selina, leaning forward even more towards Dent. "Your picture is all over the place." She smiled at him, leaning on her elbow with her chin in her hand. "You're apparently the White Knight of Gotham," she said. "All the women want you."

Dent laughed, uncomfortable. "Well, I don't know about the _last _one," he said, "but yes, I've been called the White Knight before. I think it's rather flattering... I just do what I can for the good of Gotham." He turned to Jenna, then. "Jenna, what are you going to order?" he asked, picking up his own menu. "I think the steak looks good."

"Steak is full of fat," said Selina, wrinkling up her nose. She turned to Rachel. "_You_ know that, I'm sure. Look at that figure... _flawless._ I bet you don't get a lot of appreciation for that in a _law office,_ though, huh?"

"I... get enough," said Rachel with a smile. She and Dent exchanged glances, and she could see that he was smiling, too.

"Enough? Please." Selina played with her hair. "You and I have got to go on a shopping trip one of these days, get you some more flattering clothes. You look so... _conservative_ in that." She giggled. "You should _live_ a little, girl."

"Oh..." Rachel looked down at her dress, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. It was the least conventional thing she owned, as she had wanted to look sexy for Harvey, but now she felt very prudish. She glanced down at her own conservative, fully-covered bust, and suddenly felt very self-conscious. She tried to pull down the cut of her dress a little without anyone noticing, and she could feel a slight blush rising to her cheeks.

Then Selina turned back to Wayne, smiling at him. "You haven't ordered," she reminded him.

Wayne looked at her. "I'm waiting for Jenna to order," he reminded her.

"Oh," said Selina, unimpressed. She turned back to Jenna and stared at her for a long moment. "You should order quickly, honey," she said. "You're holding up the program."

Oh, _hell_ no.

Jenna simply stared at the newcomer for the first minute or so of her obnoxious, flirtatious monologue, then she looked incredulously at Bruce. He was _playing along_, the bastard. She couldn't reasonably blame this on Wayne, however; it was Kyle who had so rudely inserted herself right in the middle of where she _wasn't fucking wanted_. _And_, to add icing to the cake, she was insulting Batman.

There were a few clear goals for this dinner date. Jenna had needed to get out into the public eye; it had been far too long since she'd gotten good coverage in the local gossip tabloids. She needed to get the hell away from Noah, whose protectiveness was beginning to get on her nerves again. And, of course, she had gone on this dinner date to get to know Bruce Wayne a little better, maybe even more intimately.

And Jenna Sweets _always_ got exactly what she wanted.

The waiter appeared at her elbow just as she opened her mouth to order, and she blinked up in surprise for a moment before settling herself. "Braised veal cheek penne, if you would," she said, tone commanding. She shot an icy smile towards Selina. "It's _so_ good that you're watching your figure. Admirable, really." She looked at Bruce, eyes shooting daggers. "Isn't it? Nice to meet a girl who knows what she needs."

The completely unveiled insult was out-of-character for her. Truth to be told, Kyle's blatantly rude attitude had set Jenna off-balance. She was much more used to people rolling over like dogs whenever she snapped her fingers; meeting someone who didn't was a bit of a shock. She grit her teeth. Oh, if _only_ she could pound that woman into a pulp...

The thought made her pause, then sit up straighter like a peacock ruffling her disturbed feathers. Violence. Definitely out-of-character. She wasn't on the _streets_, she reminded herself, smoothing out the lap of her dress and placing her hand casually on the table in the range of Wayne's (if he was any sort of smart, he'd take the bait).

Then she spared a glance for Rachel, who looked obviously uncomfortable. An interesting thought popped into Jenna's head. Maybe Rachel was smart enough to know when to join forces against a common enemy - or annoyance, at least, judging by the expression on the woman's face. So she locked her steel gaze on the woman and grinned. "Well, _Selina_," she began, glancing at Kyle, "Miss Dawes here is a highly respected lawyer - all over the paper all the time, I've seen her just _everywhere_ - and I'm co-owner of Sweets, Inc. But what is it that _you_ do?" She sculpted a blond strand of hair behind her ear. "I don't remembering hearing _your_ name much."

"I..." Selina looked surprised at Jenna's sudden counter-attack, then quickly regained her composure. "Well, I take it you don't read the paper very much," she said, shrugging, "but I'm actually very well-known in some of the... _less reputable_ circles."

"I thought prostitution was illegal in Gotham?" Rachel put in, sounding completely honest in her statement. She looked over at Harvey, who was looking impressed at her straightforwardness and trying his hardest not to laugh at her statement. "Or am I remembering incorrectly?"

"Oh, it is," said Harvey, clearing his throat and picking up his glass of water, taking a sip of it to try and hide his growing smile.

"That's not what I meant," laughed Selina, clearly annoyed. She put a delicate hand to her chest. "I used to date Warren White, the crime lord. As I said, I was pretty well-known in the... less reputable circles of Gotham. But..." She looked back at Wayne. "I'm over that lifestyle. It just wasn't for me. All that dirty business..." She put on a somewhat pouty expression. "I couldn't stand it. I wanted out of there. I wanted a fresh breath of air."

"Then I suggest you take a vacation to the Bahamas," said Dent, smiling at her. "There's no fresh air to be found in Gotham."

"He's teasing," Wayne assured Selina. He turned to the waiter. "I'll have the goose foie gras," he said. "That sounds good." Then he looked over at Jenna, down at the hand she was offering him. He looked back up at her, knowing. She was jealous of Selina. Well, she had every right to be; the woman had not been invited, and she had been unexplainably rude to Jenna. Then again, she probably thought of Wayne as the kind of man who liked a little female competition.

Wayne frowned slightly at the thought, then glanced over at Rachel. Taking Jenna's hand would be a blatant burn to Rachel, as well. But, he told himself, it would be good for business... the back-and-forth was tearing him apart. Finally, he reached across the table and took Jenna's hand in his, smiling at her. "Are you having a good evening, so far?" he asked. He did not have to look at Selina to know that she looked disgusted.

Selina pulled her purse up and dug around until she found her cell phone, and checked the time on it. Almost eight, and she still had not gotten into Wayne's pants – or pocketbook. She sighed, putting the phone back into her purse, and smiled apologetically at the table at large. "Sorry," she said, snapping her purse closed again. "Just checking to see if I missed any calls..." She shrugged. "Nobody's called me in the past forty-five minutes, though," she said with a slightly uncomfortable laugh. "Guess everyone's busy."

"Or no one wants to talk to you," said Rachel in a low tone, looking away and tucking a lock of dark hair behind her ear.

Selina smiled in slight disbelief at the statement. "I'm sensing a slight resentment in your tone, Miss Dawes," she said.

Rachel looked up, seemingly in surprise. "What?" she asked. "I didn't say anything."

"Oh, but you did, Miss Dawes," said Selina, her tone cold.

"You know, I think I'm going to have the steak," said Dent. He smiled over at the table at large. "I'm a man," he said, playfully showing off what would have been muscles if they had not been covered by a stylish suit. "I need red meat in my diet. And I don't have to worry about my waistline."

"Just don't swell up like a balloon," said Rachel, giggling.

"Why not?" asked Dent. "There'd be more Harvey to love."

Rachel raised her eyebrows, looking away with a giggle. "I want to be able to _find_ everything on you, Harvey," she said. "I don't know if I'd be able to if you were... _you know._"

"Was that a dig at my...?" Harvey stared at her in playful disbelief. "Rachel," he said. "You know better than anyone that it's not _that _small."

"I just_ love _Gotham in the Fall, don't you?" Wayne cut over them, too loudly. "It's the prettiest time of year. All the trees start turning... colours." He cleared his throat. "Or they _would_," he said, his voice slowly going down in volume. "If there _were _any... trees..."

He glanced over at Dent and Rachel, who looked a little taken aback, then looked away again. "Where is that waiter?" he asked. "He's taking his sweet time with that wine."

Jenna's eyebrows shot up at the mention of crime. She hated everything about this woman and her oppressive mannerisms, true; something about her reminded Jenna of her dear brother. There was an ever-so-slight chance this woman had somehow come in contact with Batman, though. That was enough to set aside their, ah, _slight_ differences for the moment, and lean forward with thinly-veiled interest.

"It's a good thing you got out of that, dear," she assured the woman, nodding almost politely. "But you mentioned Warren White. He's one of the _bigger_ players, isn't he?" She toyed around with the question in her mind for a moment, then gave up on diplomacy. "Ever have any run-ins with the great Batman?"

She glanced down at Bruce's hand on hers, and smiled at him, both pleased and smug. "Of course," she replied. _Lies, lies, lies..._ She really didn't want to be here. Odd, how things had turned awry so quickly just because of Kyle's arrival. She glared again at the woman. Connections to Batman or not, she was still an absolute bitch.

"Batman?" Selina laughed. "Batman wouldn't _dare_ show his face around Warren White. I think he's scared." She leaned towards Jenna slightly. "And between you and me, I'd say he has good reason to be," she said in what would have been a low voice, had she been trying to keep her voice low for anyone's consideration.

"I'm sure Batman isn't scared of someone like Warren White," Wayne scoffed, grinning incredulously.

"Of course he isn't," Dent cut in. "He's the goddamn Batman."

Selina leaned back in her chair, still watching Jenna closely. "Warren is a scary, scary man," she said. "I wouldn't be surprised if Batman was too frightened of Warren to show up around Warren's place, because he hasn't been seen."

"Warren's place?" asked Wayne, frowning slightly at Selina but keeping a good-natured, intrigued smile on his face. "What place is this?"

"Oh, Warren has a casino," said Selina. "In the Narrows. It's not exactly _hidden,_ really... I'm surprised you can't see its lights from some of the taller buildings here in downtown Gotham." She shrugged. "Technically, it's not illegal," she said, picking up Wayne's wine glass and swirling the wine around in it, "so there's nothing the court system can do about it." She smirked over at Rachel. "Though they've tried," she said coldly.

"I remember that case," Dent put in, nodding. "White versus City of Gotham... that was a major blow to the DA's office."

"That was the follow-up to the murder case," Rachel said, pointing at Dent. "They tried to pin the murder on him, and from there it led to the casino, and money laundering..."

"But none of it could be tied to him because the evidence all had something wrong with it, and the jury voted him Not Guilty," Dent said, completing her statement. "Right, I remember being insanely frustrated on that one. That was a bitch of a case."

"So you were the Opposition, Mister Dent?" asked Selina, trying to sound intelligent with her legal talk.

"Harvey was the Defendant's lawyer," said Rachel. "It was the City of Gotham that brought the law suit down on Warren White, not the other way around."

Selina stared at her blankly for a moment, then said in an unimpressed tone of voice, "Of course it was." Then she turned to Wayne, putting a hand on his arm. "I'm going to go powder my nose for a moment... I'll be right back." She winked at him. "Don't wait up," she said. She pushed her chair back, standing from the table, and with one last seductive look at Wayne, she turned and walked off.

Wayne looked after her, then looked back at Jenna, confused. Then he frowned as he felt his cell phone start to vibrate in his pocket. He looked down, letting go of Jenna's hand as he reached down into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, checking the Caller ID. It was the number of the phone he had installed in the Batcave, which he had told Alfred to call him on should the Batman symbol appear in the sky while he was otherwise busy. He looked up at his dinner company and offered a polite smile to them.

"I'm sorry," he said, getting up from his chair, "it's Alfred... he's probably spilled something... broken something... caught something on fire..." He shrugged, pushing his chair back in and laughing uncomfortably. "I am so sorry, Jenna," he said, turning to the young woman. "Maybe we can do this another time... when I've got a little less havoc to deal with? Maybe even earlier in the day? Lunch, or something...?"

Wayne cleared his throat, then nodded to them. "Well, I have to go," he said, and turned away from them, walking away.

Rachel watched him for a moment, then turned back to Jenna. "He does that a lot," she said, shrugging. "You know Bruce... always busy." She glanced over at Harvey, who was looking confused and sceptical, then picked up her glass of water and took an uncomfortable sip.

Wayne burst out of the restaurant and started for his Lamborghini when he was stopped short in his tracks by a voice coming from somewhere to his immediate left.

"I thought you'd come."

Wayne turned in time to see Selina step forward and wrap her arms around his neck, pressing her body into his in a seductive melt, smiling sensually up at him. "You know you're too good for her," Selina purred, resting her head on Wayne's chest. "That's why you followed me out here, so we could be alone."

"Actually..." Wayne did not know what to say to this straightforward woman. He had never met a woman quite as determined to get together with him, and her approach was a little daunting. He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I was just on my way home..."

"Oh," said Selina, sounding delighted, looking up at him again and raising her eyebrows. "Going home all alone, are we, Bruce?" She traced a lacquered fingernail down the front of his suit. "Won't you get lonely all by yourself, up in that great big house of yours?" She looked up at him. "Don't you want some... company?"

"Actually," said Wayne, trying to detach himself from Selina, "I've got company. My butler, Alfred, lives with me, and –"

"You butler?" Selina cut over him. "Sure, he's good company and all, but he can't give you what you _need._" She rubbed up against him, tracing his jaw with one of her fingernails. "I've seen you around, Bruce," she told him. "I know what a guy like you really wants... and it isn't some underfed hussy like_ her._" She wrapped her arms around his neck again, looking up into his face. "You need a_ real_ woman," she told him.

Wayne raised his eyebrows, then detached himself from Selina. "I'll keep that in mind," he said, starting to walk away again.

"Wait, Bruce!" Selina said, catching his arm again. Wayne turned back to her, annoyed, and she slipped a folded piece of paper into his pocket. "Call me," she said. "You know, if you're ever... lonely." She smiled seductively, then winked at him. Then she turned and walked away, back into the restaurant.

Wayne watched her leave, then shook his head. She was really something else again. Then he looked up into the sky, where he could clearly see the Batman symbol shining against the cloudy overcast of the Gotham night sky. He checked his watch, then headed towards his Lamborghini again, hoping that whatever it was that he had been called to do, it was worth all of this frustration.

Jenna scowled and sat back in her seat. Kyle was trying to bait her again. She wasn't _that_ stupid. She kept her mouth shut this time, shrugging and nodding along with the banter. Of course Batman wasn't _scared_ of white; he was, as Harvey so eloquently said, the goddamn _Batman_, after all. She did wonder why he hadn't showed up at White's place yet, though.

Maybe, she thought with sudden glee, she could scope the place out for herself, then alert Bats to the problem, and they could work tag-team to take White down. It was just the sort of thing that would get her in Bats' good books, for sure.

Her daydreaming was interrupted when Wayne got up from the table. She stared at his pathetic excuses and looked away with a refined shrug, taking her wine glass again. Of course it ended this way. He wasn't interested; no matter what Rachel said, it was as simple as that. She immediately discarded the thought. Fine, then. His loss.

The glass nearly dropped out of her hand when, unexpectedly, her own phone vibrated in her purse. She pulled it out, barely aware of the couple still seated with her. She glanced up with an apologetic smile, muttering something about "having to take this", then moved a ways away from the table, tucking herself into a niche against a pillar.

"Jenna, the Batman signal went up a few minutes ago." Jenna's eyebrows shot up. Benny was being serious; she could tell by his tone, and he didn't waste any time with the normal niceties - no Misses, or Ma'ams. Besides, her butler wouldn't play this sort of practical joke on her.

She began moving back to the table immediately. "Thanks, Ben. Could you get my things ready?" she asked. He replied with a curt affirmation, and they hung up simultaneously just as Jenna reached the table. She smiled at Harvey and Rachel. "Sorry, it seems like _I've_ got trouble at home, too," she offered by way of explanation. She picked up her purse from the table and tucked her phone back inside, bringing out her keys. "We'll just _have_ to do this again sometime. It was _buckets_ of fun." She smiled grimly, then turned and left the restaurant.

On the way out, she passed Kyle. The sight made her pause. That woman looked far too pleased with herself to have been doing anything innocent. And hadn't she said she was going to the restroom to freshen up? Jenna frowned distastefully, having half a mind to slap her then and there for her rude behavior. She ignored the instinct, thought, and left without a word to the other woman.

Some other day, she promised herself. Some day when there weren't Batman matters to be attended to.


	52. Chapter FiftyOne

Crane clicked his lighter open and closed, staring at Kitty, his clear eyes lit up every so often by the little dancing flame of the Zippo. Any kind of smile was absent from his face as he considered the woman sitting across from him. The ragtag group had taken up residence in what had been Gerald's apartment, and Crane had taken the master bedroom, taking Kitty with him. Now he sat in a chair, one leg crossed over the other, watching Kitty sitting on the bed, staring at her hands in her lap, tired and sad. Crane slowly arched an eyebrow as he stared at her.

"Kitty," he mused, watching her intently. He clicked the lighter open and closed, considering her. "Is your real name Christina," he asked, "or is it Kathryn?"

Kitty looked up at him, her eyes dull, her expression flat. "Christina," she said quietly. Then her eyes returned to her hands in her lap, and she was silent again.

"Christina," Crane repeated thoughtfully, clicking the lighter open and closed. "And what is Jack short for? Jackson? Jacob?" He paused. "_Jonathan?_" he asked, dragging it out. Kitty frowned, but did not respond. Crane looked down at the lighter, clicking it open and closed, the flame reflected off of his glasses. Then he looked back up at Kitty. "So who chose the name, Jeannie Rose?" he asked.

"I did," Kitty said, not looking up.

"Really?" Crane said, sounding sceptical. "Why?"

"I..." Kitty looked up at him, confused. "I thought it was a pretty name," she said, sounding thrown off. "I like the name Jeannie Rose."

"It's a good name," Crane said, shrugging. "I don't have any qualms with it." There was a long silence, in which the only sound was the clicking open and shut of Crane's lighter. Then he looked up at her again. "Where is your daughter, by the way?" he asked. "Usually the two of you are inseparable."

"She's safe," Kitty replied firmly, looking up at him, her expression dark. "Safe from you."

"No one is safe from me," Crane replied, unamused, raising his eyebrows.

"Jack has her now," said Kitty, straightening slightly. "You'll never be able to get her from him. He'll tear you apart."

"So much faith in someone you know so little about," Crane said, sounding somewhat amused. "How do you know he won't abandon her, like he did before? Hmm? How do you know he won't turn on her and hurt her?"

"He won't," said Kitty firmly. "Even... even if he does, Jeanette will take care of Jeannie Rose." She shook her head, vehement. "You'll never get my daughter."

"Jeanette?" Crane asked. "Is she your oh-so-reliable friend, the one who helped you escape?" He paused, clicking his lighter open and shut. "Isn't she the one I so easily stole you back from?" he asked. He smirked. "I can see that she keeps a close watch on her wards," he said, sarcastic and cold. "Your daughter is _very_ safe with her."

Kitty glared at him. "Jack will tear you limb from limb if you try to hurt Jeannie Rose," she said.

"Again with _Jack,_" said Crane, sounding slightly exasperated, closing the lighter. He put it in his pocket. "Let me tell you something about _Jack,_" he said, leaning forward in his chair. "_Jack_ is a creature of habit. He's like a dog chasing cars. _Jack_ is not going to protect your daughter. _Jack_ will probably go out, get drunk, and fuck some woman, leaving your daughter unattended and alone – that is, if he doesn't go on some kind of killing spree, in which case your daughter will be _so_ much safer..."

"Stop it!" Kitty exclaimed, covering her ears. "Stop it! You're an evil, evil person, and you deserve everything you're going to get!" She glared at him. "I can't wait until you just _try_ to take Jeannie Rose away from Jack," she hissed. "He'll destroy you so fast you won't even know what happened."

Crane stared at her, unamused. There was a long moment of silence, in which the two just glared at one another. Then Crane nodded slowly. "We'll see," he said.

. . .

Whoever had blown up the Raddisson on the corner of Delta and Vine Streets had sure been thorough.

Cleanup on the hotel (or what had been a hotel) had begun several days ago. As far as any casual passerby could tell, nothing had been accomplished. Rubble still littered the square of bare ground, and the walls were still in the process of collapsing in on themselves. The streets had been cleared, of course; nothing worse than a road obstruction in Gotham. But, besides that, the evidence had been left clean.

Just the way Robert liked it.

He bent down to brush some dust off of a piece of black plastic. It looked as if it had once been a laptop, at least until a high-power explosive had detonated, leaving it a scrap of molten mess. Useless as evidence, now that it was inoperable. He ran a finger over the smooth black surface, then pushed it aside. They'd managed to gather a few scraps from the wreckage: some pieces of cloth, a not-quite-shattered bottle or two, and even a few complete fingerprints. But the hotel had roomed hundreds of people; it would be impossible to pick out individuals from that sort of crowd without the right evidence.

What interested him the _most_, of course, were the coincidences. The Joker and some henchmen had attempted to rob a bank just opposite the street from this very hotel (Robert turned his gaze upward for a moment, to glance at the building). Analysts back at central had also marked the roof of the hotel as one potential point from which that unknown sniper with specialized bullets had taken out one of the Joker's men, the lead that had led him to this spot in the first place.

It all fit too well to be coincidence, he decided. He stood up, nodding to the men he was working with. They finished up their work as Robert made his careful way back to the perimeter. So, what had he found out that night? Next to nothing, but at least it wasn't _pure_ nothing.

He grinned. He was starting to think like Kaitlyn. God knew they only needed one Kaitlyn on their team.

"All right, boys, pack it up," he called, and headed back towards his car. Time for the hard part.

. . .

The phone booth was a good lead.

Kaitlyn made the decision to go over the crime scene right after talking to Gordon; she'd called up a few volunteer helpers from headquarters and gone immediately to the phone booth. The area was gruesome. Blood still stained the concrete and, of course, the booth itself, leaving a plethora of complete fingerprints all over the walls and handset.

The Joker might be a criminal genius, she thought with a smile, but he most certainly did _not_ have much common sense.

She'd taken a look at the newspaper that Gordon had mentioned. It was small details like that that interested Kaitlyn; too often, an otherwise good cop missed a crucial bit of evidence that could have solved the case and saved _tons_ of wasted time. Unfortunately, she didn't see much use in the paper. It wasn't even open; the front page headline, regarding the Joker's reign over Gotham, didn't surprise her. The Joker seemed to have a bit of an ego.

But the phone booth itself...now _there_ was the real juicy stuff. The Joker's bloody fingers had left more than prints, they'd actually spelled out the number of whoever he dialed; blood smears appeared on select digits. All Kaitlyn had to do was unscramble them. And, if she were to disregard the first three digits as the area code, that left only a few thousand possibilities.

She'd have to tell Robert tomorrow, she now thought as she lay on the couch at her own apartment, closing her eyes with the content sigh of someone who knew they'd done their job well. She didn't think she could make it over to his place to crash for the night.

. . .

Thank God for Benjamin Coffer.

Jenna had arrived home nearly fifteen minutes after leaving the Aquarius, even with her speeding like a demon and pulling more insanely dangerous stunts than Evel Knievel. Traffic was absolutely _horrendous_ in downtown Gotham, even so late at night. She shook her head, disgusted, as she shimmied into her black sweatpants that had been sitting out thanks to her angelic butler.

Ben had always said that he thought pink was much too frivolous (and conspicuous) a color for an aspiring hero to wear. Jenna had to agree with him; however much she loved the color, pink wouldn't work. She'd been stuck there, since the same principles seemed to apply to baby blue and lime green.

Thus, she'd opted to take a page out of Batman's book, and go with the chic black look.

As she zippered her black hoodie jacket over her (surprise, surprise) black, long-sleeved shirt, she spared a glance into the full-length mirror of her bedroom. Black _was_ slimming. She'd give it that. She turned sideways, sucked in a breath, then let it out in a whoosh. Alright, enough playing around. It was about time she got going. She paused to take one last look in the mirror, wondering if she'd have any news scars to brag about to Ben when she got home. If only she had a little armor to go with her outfit; she'd learned from one too many knife fights that sweatshirt material wasn't good at stopping blades.

On her way to the front door she stopped and bent over, pulling a tiny silver key out from under the Parisian rug on the floor. She reached up to some wood paneling under a few coat hooks and slid one of them over, revealing a miniature keyhole. She unlocked it with practiced ease and reached inside for gloves, boots, and her goggles.

Benjamin came up behind her as she did this. "You think you'll find him this time, Miss?" he asked tentatively. It was a touchy subject for Jenna, finding Batman. She'd had quite a few failures in the past several months. If it was anything else, the girl would have given up and moved on to something more exciting and interesting by now. But she nodded with a smile as she pulled her hair up into a very tight bun at the back of her head.

"I'm going to the top of the police station first," she explained, pulling on the boots and gloves, then adjusting the goggles over her eyes. They covered a good amount of her face. She pressed a button on the side; immediately, the night vision sensors flicked on and she could see past the black lenses. "If he's not there, I'll just go around town for a while, see if I can find what's up." She shrugged, adjusting her gloves. She pressed one hand's thumbs and index fingers together, then held her hand up to one of the metal coat hangers; it clung to the steel. She pulled her hand away, again pushing the two fingers together. The low electronic buzz that had been issuing from the gloves went away once more. "It's the best I can do. I've got a good feeling about tonight."

With that, she was out the door and heading towards the separate garage. "Noah's won't miss me, then?" she called back. Benjamin nodded.

"Asleep. He wore himself out with some exercise earlier," the butler explained. Jenna grinned and waved as she disappeared into the garage. A minute later, engines roared, and she zipped back into the driveway, seated on her jet-black Vulcan 1700 Voyager. It had cost her a pretty penny from an overseas custom bike maker, but it was worth it; fast, quiet, sleek, everything Jenna could hope for in a motorcycle.

Before she opened the throttle, she shouted to Ben, "I'll give a call if anything breaks this time." She roared off into the night.

. . .

Going out at night was nothing new to Pamela, but this was the first time she had attempted to pull off a robbery. Nevertheless, she had prepared herself for it days in advance, had perfected her plan, quadruple-checked to make sure nothing could possibly gone wrong, and picked out just the right outfit for the job. She ran her slender fingers through her thick red hair, pushing her stubborn, overgrown bangs from her lucid green eyes, and tucked her hypodermic needle back into her belt, leaving the security guard twitching on the ground in a shivering wreck.

Pamela slipped inside the pristine building, scanning the plexiglass walls of the walkway as she perused the vivid selection of greenery Gotham's top-secret Botany Corporation had growing in its nurseries. Pamela had been allowed inside once, while she was visiting on a work fieldtrip, and had been shown the pride and joy of the BGC: a rare South American plant that was rumoured to be able to cure several obscure and seemingly unrelated diseases, including at least one previously incurable STD.

Pamela did not have any of those, thankfully, but she knew that the plant was worth a fortune on the black market. The black market was only her secondary interest, however; first, she wanted to study the plant, herself. She wanted to finally be a household name for botanists all over the globe – Pamela Isley, botanical scientist extraordinaire. She smiled at the thought. It was a comforting thought, at least... more comforting than the thought of breaking into the place she had wanted to work so badly for years on end, but had always been rejected from for being 'too inexperienced'.

Well, now they could eat their words.

Pamela stopped in front of one of the plexiglass windows and stared inside at where a single plant in a pot sat in a filtered light on a desk. She stared at it for a long moment, almost shaking with anticipation, then looked around for a door. She finally found the door, but it had several complicated entry locks, card-swipes, fingerprint recognizing software... it was a nightmare. Pamela stared at it in slight horror for a moment, then, turning back to the plexiglass window, she took a deep breath and rammed her shoulder into it.

Instantly, an alarm started going off. Pamela looked up, terrified, and then turned when she heard a man's voice behind her, "Halt!" She turned, holding her hands up in the air, as a security guard came racing towards her, holding a gun. He jerked it towards her. "Keep your hands where I can see 'em!" he ordered.

Pamela sighed. "If you say so, buddy," she said, sounding bored. She put her hands on her head, hesitated, and then threw herself forward onto the security guard, smothering him with a kiss. The security guard protested for a moment, then fell back onto the floor, limp. Pamela wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and spit. The plant poison she had coated her lips with was surely gone by now, so she could not use that trick again. At least she still had her syringe of herbal toxin to use. It helped that she was attractive. Men were easy to get past. She just hoped she did not come across any female security guards.

Pamela picked up the security guard's gun and pointed it at the plexiglass, then fired off a few bullets, breaking through it. She smirked, satisfied with herself, and then pushed through the glass into the room. The plant sat, waiting for her, under the spotlight, and Pamela had only a moment to admire it before she snatched it up and started to run. The alarm would alert all the guards in the building that something was amiss, and soon the place would be swarming with police. But, knowing the GPD, Pamela had plenty of time to get out safely with her stolen prize.

As she stepped over the unconscious security guard in the hallway and started for the exit, she just hoped that Batman had not gotten the memo yet. It would be a real pain in the neck to try to take on someone who knew what they were doing.

. . .

Wayne stepped off the elevator into the Batcave, pulling his jacket off and handing it off to Alfred, who was standing by. "What's the deal?" Wayne asked, crossing to the display case where the Batsuit was suspended, waiting to be used. Alfred took a deep breath, ready as always.

"There's been a break-in," he explained, straightforward. "The Gotham Botanical Centre. The alarm started going off just a few minutes ago." He followed Wayne to the display case, intent and businesslike. "You made good time coming from the restaurant."

Wayne entered the code that opened the door of the glass case, and the door swung open with a low hiss. Wayne pulled off his dress shirt and handed it to Alfred, then pulled out the skin-tight black shirt that went on under his Bat armour and slipped it on over his head. "The GBC?" he asked, shaking out his hair as he started to undo his slacks. He kicked them off and handed them over to Alfred, pulling out the skin-tight black pants and slipping into them. "That's a new one."

"Indeed, Sir," said Alfred, taking the clothes. "It seems the thief was after a rare plant they were researching there... That was the alarm that went off, according to the system switchboard."

Wayne glanced over at the wall of the Batcave, where a single red light was flashing. He could not see what the little text strip next to it read, but apparently it was the GBC's top-secret sector. Wayne had heard about it, in passing, when talking to other elites. They thought it was a silly place to invest money, and therefore Wayne had been sure to put some of his into it. Thus far, he had seen neither gains nor losses at the hands of the GBC, but he had not expected his investment to double overnight because of a couple plants. No one got that lucky.

"I wonder who would try to steal a plant?" Wayne mused, adjusting a small mirror in the display case so he could see his face. He pulled a black makeup crayon from a pocket in the display case and coloured in around his eyes, making sure no part of his skin above the nose was visible, or recognizable. Whoever had made the mask had cut the eyeholes too big for concealment, but, as Wayne had discovered, they were just the right size for use. Quality over appearance, he guessed.

"A rival botanist, perhaps?" Alfred guessed with a shrug. He glanced away, letting out a breath. "Or a very intelligent goat."

Wayne put the crayon away and pulled out the leg armour, starting to strap himself into it. "I was never big on botanical sciences," he admitted, securing the leg armour and making sure it was still sturdy. "I wonder what kind of plant is so valuable that it's worth stealing...?"

"Marijuana," Alfred answered simply. "Or ripe poppy."

Wayne chuckled. "Somehow I doubt the top-secret sector of the Gotham Botanical Corporation is doing genetic engineering on drug plants," he said, pulling out the chest armour.

"You never know," said Alfred. "It is top-secret, after all."

Wayne shook his head, slipping the armour on over his head, then pulled out the gauntlets and slipped into them, securing his outfit, making sure everything fit and would not slip off. Then he pulled the heavy cape from the display case and secured it onto the shoulders of his armour, and finally he pulled out the cowl and slipped it onto his head. He turned and looked at Alfred, who nodded approvingly.

"You look good, Master Wayne," he said with a smile.

"Good enough to kick some drug-dealer's ass?" Wayne asked with a smile, slipping into his faux Batman voice.

Alfred's grin widened. "If I were a drug dealer, I would be _very _afraid," he answered.

Wayne nodded, then turned, grabbing up the keys of the Tumbler and heading off towards the garage.

. . .

Gordon sipped at his coffee, staring at the night sky, holding his jacket tightly around his form. He checked his watch. It usually took Batman a bit to get to the checkpoint on top of the police tower, but he seemed to be taking a bit longer than usual tonight. Then again, Gordon reasoned as he took a sip of coffee, Batman had a social life as a human being. At least, Gordon _assumed_ he did. Living life as nothing but a vigilante by night would be a terribly boring existence, Gordon thought. He sipped his coffee and checked his watch again. It was already past eight, and the Bat signal had gone up a little before eight o' clock.

Just then, Batman came swooping in and landed smoothly beside Gordon, folding his cape over his arms and front like a pair of enormous wings as he stared Gordon down. "What's the deal?" he asked, his voice gruff.

Gordon glanced over at him, unfazed. Batman was an impressive figure, but he had gotten used to him showing up without warning, so it did not surprise him when he turned to find the masked crusader standing there. "There was a robbery," he said. "The Gotham Botanical Corporation," he answered, straight to the point. "Their plant, the really important one from South America, the one that's supposed to cure all those diseases… somebody stole it."

"Have we got any idea who did it?" asked Batman.

"We have an idea as to who didn't do it," said Gordon, looking back over at him. "It wasn't anybody on our radar. So not the Joker, not Crane, and not any of the other people we've been looking out for." He looked back at the symbol in the sky, taking a sip of coffee. "We know it's a female, young, redheaded. That's all we know."

"Were there any witnesses?" Batman asked, nodding along with Gordon's description of the thief.

Gordon shook his head. "The GPD got there to find two security guards knocked out," he said. "Seems whoever it is, is familiar with plants… they had been taken out with some kind of non-lethal botanical poison."

"Maybe another botanist," Batman suggested.

"Maybe," replied Gordon, nodding.

Batman nodded, too. "Thanks, Gordon," he said, turning away.

"Anytime," replied Gordon. He took a sip of coffee. "Oh, one more thing –" he began to say, looking back over in Batman's direction, but Batman was already gone.

Jenna fumed in silent angst when she reached the roof of the Gotham police station just moments after Batman left it. She watched him spirit himself away more quickly than a ghost with admiration. She _couldn't_ let him get away. Not when she was so close. So she brushed her thumb against her index finger and the magnetized gloves released their hold on the fire exit, dropping her smoothly to the ground.

The chase was short; soon, it became apparent that Batman had found who he was looking for.

Pamela drove down a back street, the wailing of the alarms of the GBC fading further and further into the background as she tried to put as much distance as possible between herself and the place she had just stolen from. She drifted into another side alley, starting to steadily slow down her car's speed the further she got from the GBC, and switched on her lights. It was probably safe to do so, now that she was almost in the Narrows, and the police had lost her a while back.

Pamela glanced over into the passenger's seat of her car, where the plant she had stolen from the GBC sat, its delicate leaves fringed ever so slightly, its bud still a few days immature to opening. She reached out a hand and gently touched the plant with a faint smile. Pamela had been telling her friends for a while that she would be one of the botanists who would do experiments on the new plant, and she had been crushed when the GBC had turned her away. Only one of her friends, her best friend, Harleen, had kept pushing her forward, telling her that if she wanted it badly enough, she would eventually get it.

Now Harleen was dead, killed by the psychopath who Pamela now found herself joining sides against Batman with. She wanted nothing to do with the man; in fact, she had always been a supporter of Batman and his ability to keep criminals in Gotham running scared. She never imagined that she, herself, would become one of the criminals that Batman would be hunting. But, looking up into the sky, she saw the familiar symbol shining against the smoggy clouds. She glanced over to the plant again, reaching out a hand to gently stroke the unopened bud.

"This is for you, Harley," she said, her voice quiet.

She turned to return her eyes to the road, and she slammed on the brakes just in time to avoid hitting someone who was standing in the middle of the street. As she stared at the figure, petrified behind her steering wheel, she saw the pointed outline of the animalistic cowl against the wan streetlights. Batman had found her, and he did not look happy. Pamela swallowed, her mind racing. She could give up and surrender to Batman, and perhaps her sentence would be lessened. Then she glanced over at the plant in the passenger's seat. She could not, _would _not, give up so easily on her lifetime dream, especially now that it meant so much more than it had before…

Pamela steeled herself, then put her foot down on the accelerator and started full-speed towards Batman. Batman jumped up onto the hood of the car, grabbing hold of the roof of the car. Pamela's eyes grew wide and she weaved the car violently, trying to throw Batman, but he held on tightly. Then Batman drew back a fist and smashed through the windshield of the car. Pamela screamed, shielding her eyes, and jerked the car around in a complete three-sixty.

Jenna looked on in watchful silence, keeping to the shadows. The redhead driving the car didn't have a particularly criminal look about her, unlike the other lowlifes Jenna had been roughing up. She looked almost..._scared_. Pity flared in Jenna's chest as she watched the car swerve around, until she caught sight of Batman clinging to the vehicle to get it to stop. Batman clung onto the side of the car, not letting go as Pamela drove full speed ahead towards the side of a building.

"Get off!" she screamed.

"Give me the plant!" Batman demanded, grabbing the steering wheel. He steered the car away from the wall just as it was about to collide. Pamela gritted her teeth at him in frustrated anger.

"No!" Pamela shouted back, trying to jerk the wheel from his hands. "It's mine!"

Batman jerked the wheel back. "That plant belongs to the Gotham Botanical Corporation!" he said. "That's stolen property!"

"They owe this to me!" Pamela insisted. "This plant is rightfully mine!"

"_Give me the plant!_" Batman demanded, lunging for her.

Pamela jerked the wheel sharply to one side. Batman tried to grab hold of something, but he slipped from the hood of the car. Pamela spun the car around, then started once more, full speed ahead, towards Batman. Batman looked up from his spot on the ground, the bright headlights shining directly into his eyes as the car bore down on him, getting ever closer.

If Batman wanted that woman, then she _must_ be a criminal. In Jenna's naive mind, Bats' opinion was law, and that law governed morality. Everything seemed to be going just according to plan, and Jenna began to worry that she wouldn't get a chance to display her own heroics, as she'd hoped.

But suddenly Batman was on the ground, with a car tearing towards him and no chance to get away.

"Oh, hell, no," Jenna muttered, thrusting herself out of the shadows. Her fingers brushed automatically together, and the low hum of her gloves rang in her ears. She grabbed Bats by the arm and shoved him out of the way with one hand, the other grasping the edge of the shattered windshield of the car. Her gloves clung to the metal surface and her feet were jerked violently off the ground. The car's momentum swung her around its front and into its side with bruising force. The air was pressed out of her lungs. Her entire side throbbed and ached. There would be a bruise from this, she was sure, but now wasn't the time to think about that. She gasped for breath, then swung herself back around to the front windshield and into the car.

Pamela screamed and jerked the car when the girl came flying through the broken windshield. She grabbed the plant out of harm's way as she tried to steer and think quickly as to how to get rid of the girl. Since when did Batman work with anyone? As far as Pamela knew, Batman was a team of one, and there had never been reports of Batman working with anyone else – least of all a _girl._ Pamela clenched her teeth, glaring at the woman who was now in the car with her. Oh, well, she decided; a girl would be easier to deal with than another man.

Pamela jerked the car around, unbuckling her seatbelt, and flung open her door as she let the car keep running until it crashed into one of the walls of the back alley. She was almost certain the girl had gotten out all right, or at least she hoped she had, but now was not the time to think about that kind of thing. Pamela clutched the plant tightly to her chest as she started to run, but she did not make it very far before she felt her arm grabbed by a strong grasp. "Not so fast," a gruff voice halted her in her tracks. Pamela clutched the plant tightly, not wanting to let go of it, and refused to look at who she knew had caught her.

"You're making a mistake," she said, her voice strained. "This plant is rightfully mine…!"

"I think we'll leave that up for the GPD to decide," Batman replied, pulling out a pair of handcuffs. He roughly jerked her arms behind her back, prying the plant from her grasp, and clicked the handcuffs securely around her wrists. Pamela struggled and fought, but she was no match for Batman, and she eventually gave up and stood obediently by his side.

Jenna climbed shakily out of the tattered remains of the car, scowling fiercely and twisting one arm around in its socket. Stupid _ginger_, she thought bitterly, checking to make sure the cuts she had from the broken windshield weren't severe. Always mucking up the fun. Who went and crashed a freaking _car_ into a freaking _wall_, anyways? Her quick self-checkup came up clear, besides some splotchy purple bruises beginning to appear on her arms. She could play those off as gymnastics accidents, or something.

Batman watched Pamela for a moment, then turned around to look at who had come to his rescue. It was a girl, he could tell just by looking at her curvy form, dressed in some kind of high-tech suit like his, only not quite as stylized. He frowned.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked, his gravelly voice sounding curious but annoyed. "I didn't ask for any help. You could've botched the whole mission by showing up like you did." He turned back to Pamela, thinking for a moment. He was annoyed that he had put himself in a situation where he, Batman, had needed saving, and it irked him even more than usual that it was a female who had saved him, but there was nothing that he could do about it now. He just hoped the girl, whoever she was, did not have a big mouth. He could not stand to have his reputation as Batman crushed by a small act like that one.

"Thank you for saving my life," he said, turning back to her. "But just don't mention it to anyone. I have a reputation to uphold." He turned back away from her as the sound of police sirens reached his ears. He looked at Pamela again, then back at the girl, and then pulled out his grapple-hook, shot it off at a nearby building, and was gone, leaving the two of them to be found by the police.

Jenna was about to angrily spit out something to the effect of "fuck you" at Batman's not-so-gracious acknowledgment of her stunning rescue skills. What was he playing at? She'd _saved_ him, for chrissakes, from being crushed under a car. But she was distracted and left starry-eyed during the Bat's exit by his sincere, if a bit curt, thank you. _Always the gentleman,_ she thought dreamily, staring off into space.

The distant blare of police sirens jolted her out of her daze. She needed to get out of here. She spared a glance at the redhead and considered her for a moment. Then she grinned and waggled her tongue at the woman before hopping away down the alley.

Unnecessary? Probably. Childish? Well, duh. But it made _her_ feel better.

. . .

"Well," said Dent, resting his cheek against Rachel's hair and sighing, "tonight was interesting, wasn't it?"

"I had no idea Bruce was going to be there," Rachel repeated for what she felt was the hundredth time, running a hand distractedly down Dent's bare chest. "I'm so sorry he had to come and ruin it. And then there was that woman..."

"Oh, I didn't mind her much," Dent said with a reassuring grin. He gently kissed the top of Rachel's head. "If I had as much money as Bruce Wayne, those kind of women would probably be all over me, too."

"No they wouldn't," Rachel replied with a feisty smile. "I'd beat them up."

"Oh, you would, would you?" asked Dent, looking down into Rachel's face. He shifted in bed, propping himself up on one elbow. "You would fight for me?"

"Who said I was fighting for you?" Rachel replied, giggling. "Maybe I just like a good fist-fight."

"I can see it now," said Dent, holding out an arm as if reading a marquee. "Rachel Dawes, lightweight boxing champ of the world. What do you have to say, Miss Dawes? Oh..." He imitated Rachel's voice poorly, "I just like a good fist-fight, that's all."

"Stop it!" Rachel said, scrunching up her nose and hitting him gently on the arm. "You're always making fun of me."

"And you like it," said Dent, laying back down next to her. "And you know it."

"I like _you,_" Rachel corrected him, looking up into his face. "I'm not too fond of being made fun of."

"Well, then, I'll try to keep that in mind in the future," said Dent. He chuckled, kissing Rachel's hand. "Don't make fun of Rachel Dawes," he said in an undertone, still smiling. "She'll beat you up."

"Stop that," Rachel said, pressing her nose to Dent's.

Dent grinned, closing his eyes, and pulled her closer to him. "Okay," he said. "Since you asked nicely."


	53. Chapter FiftyTwo

Money, check.

Shaving, check.

Clothing... check.

Thomas grinned. He must be in a pretty good mood if he was cracking jokes like that. Even if he _wasn't_ cracking them aloud. And even if they _were_ lame jokes that didn't make sense. He honestly should have checked all this before he left the house. He sighed and ran a flustered hand through his hair. Where the hell had the day gone? He could have sworn he'd just been sitting in his desk, bored out of his skull, a moment ago. Now, he was sitting at a bar stool in the Iceberg Lounge, waiting for whoever this "Jay" character was to show up.

He'd ordered a water to toy with while he waited, though he'd been sorely tempted by the beer taps jutting out over the edge of the counter top. Maybe a bar wasn't the best place to meet for business, especially when he was (he hated to say it, but Gerald had convinced him) a recovering alcoholic. Hopefully whoever he was meeting wouldn't push that idea.

Then again, there was that nagging voice in the back of his head calling him a prude and a pussy, and it was starting to irritate him. He tapped his fingers on the counter top and sighed. "Who the hell is this guy, anyways?" he muttered quietly, checking his watch. Late. Of course.

. . .

Napier smoothed out the front of the dress shirt he had chosen, the white button-up that was supposed to be worn with the business suit, and pulled the suit-vest on over it. It was a variation of his usual attire, not quite as striking or comfortable, but it would do. He checked himself, making sure he had everything, and then slipped his hands into the pockets of the suit-pants. He looked casual at the moment, but all he needed was the jacket of the suit and he would have looked professional. All he needed was to wash his hair a little, and he would look like any other guy on the street.

Well, almost.

Napier sat down on the bed and pulled on his shoes, his own worn brown oxfords, and tied them up tightly. The last thing he needed was to lose the only part of his outfit he had left that was not spattered in blood or ripped to shreds – or both. He frowned at the thought as he finished off the second knot and sat upright, placing his hands on his knees as he considered the blank wall in front of him. He would never be able to replace that outfit, he realized. It was too special. Then again, he reasoned, getting up from the bed and pulling the vest tightly down across his sturdy frame, perhaps he could get Jeanette to mend it for him.

He picked up the watch he had gotten from the most recent coat-and-tie killing he had done and checked it. It was already a few minutes past eight – the time he, himself had set for the meeting. He cursed himself, then quickly slipped the watch onto his wrist and opened the door of the guest bedroom, letting himself out. He was surprised that it had taken him so long to decide on an outfit to wear – usually, that was something that women were notorious for, not men. He frowned at the thought as he buttoned up his sleeve and looked around for any other sign of life.

"Jeanette?" he called. "You still here?" He glanced over at the kitchen table, where she had been sitting when he had gone into the bedroom in the first place, but she was not there. Her laptop had gone to sleep, so he knew that she had not been on it for a bit. "Mm," Napier said thoughtfully, putting one hand in his pocket. Then the sound of a door creaking open caught his attention, and he looked up to see Jeannie Rose emerging from her bedroom, rubbing her eyes and yawning. Jeanette had been right; the little girl had been sleeping for a few hours, it seemed. A small smile curved up the corner of Napier's mouth. She probably needed it, poor thing, he thought. Too much excitement would wear out a little thing like her.

"Hey, Jeannie Rose," Napier said, smiling at her. "How was your nap? You sleep okay?"

"Mm," Jeannie Rose replied groggily, reaching out and taking his free hand and attaching herself firmly to his arm. "Hi, Daddy." She yawned again, and Napier bent and picked her up. Jeannie Rose looked at him for a moment, then turned and looked around. "Where's Miss Jeanette?" she asked.

"I don't know," said Napier, shrugging. "She was here the last time I saw her… maybe she's putting on makeup or something." He played with one of Jeannie Rose's curls. "Daddy has to go out for a little bit, so you be a good girl and do what Miss Jeanette says while I'm gone, okay?"

Jeannie Rose nodded, still sleepy, and rubbed her eyes again. "Where are you going, Daddy?" she asked.

"Daddy's going to meet up with someone to talk about things," Napier replied, careful to word his answer very carefully. "I'll be back in a little bit, though. Don't worry about me."

Jeannie Rose nodded again and then looked at him, studying his face. She reached out a hand and traced the scars on either side of his mouth thoughtfully, then dropped her hand with a sigh. "Why do you have those scars, Daddy?" she asked. "Other men don't have those scars, and Mommie doesn't have those scars… why do you?"

Napier opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Then he answered, "Daddy… has done a lot of things he shouldn't, baby. And now he has these scars as a result." He smiled at her. "So just remember to always do what you're told, and you won't end up looking like Daddy. All right?"

Jeannie Rose nodded, her eyes wide. "Okay, Daddy," she said.

Napier nodded back. "And eat your veggies," he reminded her, tapping her little button nose with one finger. "They're good for you. Make you grow up big and strong."

Jeannie Rose giggled. "Okay, Daddy," she said, batting his hand away.

Napier smiled, then set the little girl down and turned away. Jeannie Rose ran to him and grabbed hold of his hand again. "Come back soon, okay?" she said. "An' when you come back, will you play with me?" She stared up at him, hopeful, and held onto the edge of her little pink dress hopefully, tugging on his hand. "Please?" she asked.

Napier stared at her for a long moment, then smiled and nodded. "Okay," he said.

"You _promise?_" asked Jeannie Rose, pulling harder on his hand.

Napier laughed, crouching down to her level, and lightly pinched her pink cheek. "I _promise,_" he said. He stood, turning away from her, and crossed to the door, opening it. "Bye," he said, turning back and waving with a smile.

"Bye," said Jeannie Rose, waving back.

Napier stared at his daughter for a long moment, content. Then he closed the door behind him and was gone.

. . .

The Iceberg was at a moderate capacity when Napier entered and looked around, scanning the place for the reporter he had asked to meet him there at what had been supposed to be eight o' clock, but he had now turned into something around eight-fifteen. Maggie was not tending the bar, which meant that she was probably mingling with the guests. Instead, Tally had taken her place, and he was dutifully and silently filling two mugs with frothing beer. Cobblepot, however, was nowhere to be seen, and Napier supposed he was glad of it, really. He did not want to have to deal with the man, when he had apparently said something offensive to him before. That, and Cobblepot and Maggie had a nasty way of nitpicking at his rather unsteady social life. He was sure they did not mean any harm, but the topic still made him slightly uncomfortable.

Napier checked his watch with a scowl, hoping Thomas had not gotten irked by his lateness and left already, and was relieved when he saw him sitting at the bar, looking thoughtful. He crossed to the bar and settled himself down on a stool one away from the man with a satisfied exhale, then looked up and offered a slightly overzealous grin to the brooding barkeep. "Evening, Tally," he said. "Business been good so far this evening?" Tally glared wordlessly at him, but said nothing. "Always good to hear from you," Napier said, nodding. Then he turned to Thomas. "I don't guess you've been interviewing him while you've been waiting?" he asked. "I'm surprised… he never shuts up, usually."

He offered his hand to Thomas to shake. "I'm Jack," he said, grinning at him. He checked his watch again. "Sorry I'm late… I got a little tied up." He looked up again. "Good thing I know how to untie sailor's knots," he said with a grin. He laughed, slapping Thomas on the back, then looked away, back at Tally, and said, "Can I have a glass of water? Thanks." He turned back to Thomas as the water was placed on the bar in front of him.

"So, Thomas Hale," he said thoughtfully, picking up the water and taking a drink of it. "I've been reading your articles in the paper, and I have to say… you are a _phenomenal_ writer." He set the glass down, nodding. "I, uh… I'm especially fond of your stories about the, uh… the _Joker._" He grinned at Thomas. "In case you didn't know," he added as an afterthought. He picked up his glass, considering taking another drink, then set it back down again. "So tell me, Thomas," he said, "how does it feel to be hated by everyone in Gotham because you're smarter than all of them? Hm? How does it feel to be on top of a revolution?"

He picked up his glass and took a drink, then looked at Thomas again. "You know," he said, "you're the reporter here, but… I would give anything to be able to just _pick your brain._" He grinned at this. "What do you say?" he asked.

Thomas frowned, unintentionally leaning a bit away from the newcomer. Jack's actions and words confused him. He seemed cordial enough, with his joking and laughing, but his words almost seemed...offensive. Thomas was also more than thrown at the guy's appearance. Whatever he'd expected, it hadn't been this. A gruesome Glasgow smile was stretched across his face, curling up at one side; the skin obviously hadn't been well-taken care of, since it puckered and bubbled into scars on either side of his mouth. And his hair...it was difficult to see in the low lighting, but Jack's hair was tinted a distinctive green.

He nodded his thanks to the compliment about his articles, then shook his head. "I don't know what you mean. What revolution?" He paused, then added in a near-mutter, "And I'm not hated by everyone. Someone has to agree with me." He was _not_ fighting a hopeless war. Things would change, and then Gotham would look back at Thomas Hale and say that he'd been right all along.

Jack's request was unusual but, hell, he was talking to a guy with green hair. And he had nothing better to do that night; plus, he had to stick around the Lounge to meet up with Maria later. So he shrugged. Being interviewed couldn't be _that_ awful. "Don't see why not," he replied apathetically. "Though I can't promise you'll find anything interesting."

"You know… the revolution of _change._" Napier picked up his glass of water and swirled it around. "The Joker is bringing in a new revolution, where the good guys run scared and the bad guys run free, and you can't trust anybody because you don't know who they're working for – but I'll tell you who they're working for." He nodded, grinning. "They're working for the Joker," he said, raising his eyebrows. "You'll see… one of these days, you'll figure out that everything you knew is a lie, and that everybody who isn't firmly stapled to their goody-two-shoes ways is actually a double-crossing grubby-handed back-stabber."

He took a drink of water, then set down his almost-empty glass, taking a deep breath. "You know, you're right, Tom. – Is it all right if I call you Tom?" He shrugged, then went on, undaunted, "Tom, there _is_ at least one person who agrees with you." He looked over at Thomas. "_I_ agree with you," he said, inclining his head towards him. "I think that everything you've written… it couldn't have been said better. And your titles…" He chuckled. "_Genius._ I mean, really… where do you come up with those things?"

He leaned forward towards Thomas slightly, watching his expression. "Well, since you don't mind…" He wet his lips, thinking. Then he paused. "You seem nervous," he noted, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Is it the scars?" He grinned a bit at this, then said, "But anyways, since you said I could, I'd like to ask you a few things about… yourself." He took a shallow breath, then asked, "Sometimes, I read your articles, and they just make my day. But what I want to know is… what made you take the side of the Joker in this whole big deal?"

Napier leaned back, considering Thomas. "I mean, most people would instantly take the side of the GPD, or… _the Batman._" He dragged out the vigilante's name. "But not you. You take the Joker's side, loud and clear, right there on the cover of the daily paper." He blinked slowly, watching Thomas. "Why?" he asked.

Thomas frowned. _That_ was a depressing outlook on life. If he had to hazard a guess (and, being the reporter he was, of _course_ he had to), he'd say this Jack guy had been hurt as badly as he had by those so-called "goodie two-shoes". Too badly. So badly that he now railed against that lifestyle and preferred to connect himself to the criminals in the city. Thomas liked to think he wasn't being _that_ extreme. Sure, he was trying to expose all of the fraud and deceit in the police force, but he wasn't trying to bring them down so that the criminals and psychos on the streets could start their own reign of the city.

So he had to protest the wording of Jack's question. "It's not...I'm not siding with him. In those terms." He sighed, ran a hand through his hair. "The Gotham police department is the problem in this city. Any other place could handle the crime that goes on here." He chuckled. "Hell, look at LA. Look at Chicago. They're not as bad as Gotham, and there's only _one_ reason for that." He picked up his drink and pointed at Jack before taking a sip. "The police."

For the first time in a while, Thomas felt like he could talk to someone about this. Jack was someone who was siding with him, not tearing him down for being anti-American and pro-terrorist. He _understood_. "There is so much corruption in this city, it makes me sick. Officer Gordon has his own private unit in the GPD, and he's practically got the Commissioner in his pocket. Garcia...hell, I don't know what to say about the guy." The edges of his mouth twitched upward in a sneer. "And what needs to be said about Batman? The guy's a nut job out for some kicks."

He shook his head. "No, I don't need to side with that much idiocy and sleaze. If it means being outcasted, fine." He glared down at his glass, and the intense frown softened to a look of deeper pain. "I've been affected by all of this. Call it revenge, I don't care; I want to make them pay for all the horrible things they've been doing."

Then he glanced back up at Jack with a bitter smile. "Sorry, probably talking your ear off," he said, somewhat embarrassed. He paused, looked at Jack more carefully. "Do I...know you?" he asked, squinting slightly. He'd seen those scars before, he just couldn't remember _where_. It was on the tip of his tongue.

Napier listened with interest to Thomas' explanation of his views, nodding every so often to show he was still paying attention. So Thomas was not exactly an ally, per se, but at least he was not an adversary. He picked up his glass of water, draining the remaining liquid from the bottom of the glass, and nodded. "You know, you're right," he said, turning to look at Thomas. "The GPD isn't doing its job. I mean, how hard could it be to catch a few criminals?" He grinned. "Unless the criminals were really smart," he said, pointing at Thomas. "You need to take that into consideration." Then he raised his eyebrows, turning away. "Though if one criminal is smarter than an entire police force…" He scoffed. "That isn't saying much for the police force's brain capacity."

He glanced over towards Tally, his fingers playing over the rim of his glass. "I think I'll have a Bevo, Tally," he said, wetting his lips. "Something low-key, for the moment. Don't want to rush into anything." He chuckled uncomfortably, making sure not to make eye contact with Thomas as Tally cracked open the near-beer and poured it into his glass. He did not know if Thomas remembered the last time they had seen one another, but he knew for sure that he did not want to do anything stupid that might result in a repeat of that time. He picked up his glass, taking a sip, and then set it down with a satisfied exhale. "That's some good stuff," he lied, shaking his head. Then he turned back to Thomas.

"You don't care if you're an outcast?" he asked, sounding slightly impressed. "I remember when I used to care about things like that… it just drove me to more extreme measures to try to fit in. The stress was overwhelming. All of that nonsense just made everything worse." He picked up his drink, taking another sip, trying not to make a face at the taste. "You know, you've got a valid point," he said, nodding as he set down his glass on the bar. "They do all this shit to us, the little people, and then expect no retribution on our part. And, worse than that, the people never fight back, despite their constitutional rights to do so." He shrugged. "But you've got the right idea," he said. "Give it to 'em. Stick it to the man."

Napier brought his glass to his mouth, and raised his eyebrows when Thomas voiced his concern. "No, no," he said, shaking his head as he brought his drink away from his lips. "You're not. It's actually really interesting." Then a grin split his face. "Well, I don't know," he answered, turning to face Thomas straight-on. "We might have met before… once. You might have seen me around. I'm pretty sure you know me." His smile widened. "Then again, it might just be a coincidence," he said with a shrug. "I mean, there are plenty of guys running around Gotham with Chelsea grins." He brought his drink back to his lips, taking another sip.

Something about Jack's not-quite-nasally voice was naggingly familiar to Thomas. He watched the man intently as he spoke, searching through his mental Rolodex of familiar faces. So he was right, he knew Jack from somewhere; the man just refused to tell him. And it _was_ those scars that seemed more than faintly familiar...

The realization hit him so hard that he nearly fell out of his seat. The gala, the scars, the strange "businessman" that Gordon had said was Casper Dolohov, but who Thomas had later discovered to be...the Joker.

He was talking to the Joker. Face to face. The madman who had murdered countless people in the last few weeks was sitting a foot away from him, chatting about politics and morals. How had he not realized this sooner? There were hints _everywhere_. He talked about the incompetent police force, how much he _loved_ Thomas' articles about the Joker (himself, as it were), the "change things or die trying" mentality that he'd often heard of in the criminal's psyche as presented by the chief psychoanalysts around the city. For chrissakes, his _hair _was still _green_.

Thomas didn't quite know what to do, so he vocalized his confusion in the first way that presented itself to him.

"Shit."

He half-stood up. "You're...you're...oh my God," he said, finally giving up. He pointed at Jack. "You're the Joker." His voice was low and quiet; he looked around in a panic. There were tons of people here. Who was he to say that the man didn't have a gun hidden at his belt right now, or knives tucked into his sleeves? He would keep this to himself, for now. "What do you want? You going to kill me?" he asked, dull terror in his tone.

"Shh, shh," Napier said, holding out both hands towards him. "Sit, sit. You're overreacting." He retracted his hands, looking somewhere between amused and concerned for Thomas. "You guessed right," he admitted, picking up his glass and considering taking a drink. "But I'm not interested in hurting you." He took a drink, then set his glass back down. "I just wanted to talk to the only man in the city who supports my cause. And on the front page of the Gotham news… you can't get any better than that in my books."

He picked up his drink again, considering taking another sip, then set it back down with a grimace. "I can't even _pretend_ to like that," he surrendered. He looked up at Tally. "Let's see… I think this time I'll try…" He paused, considering it. "I think I'll try something a little different this time," he said with a grin. "It's been a while since I've had something new." He thought for a moment, then said, "Make me a Clayton." Napier watched as Tally set his drink down in front of him, then picked it up, taking a sip, and nodded in approval of the new drink. "That's much better," he said with a sigh, setting the drink down.

Napier turned back to Thomas, looking him up and down. "I don't just kill everyone who crosses my path," he said, shaking his head and turning back to his drink. He traced his fingers around the rim of the glass. "Only those who are in my way, or who have done something specifically to… piss me off." He arched an eyebrow. "You've done neither," he informed Thomas, inclining his head. "So I have no problem with you." He turned and grinned over at Thomas. "You don't have to worry about suffering a horrible death anytime soon," he told him.

Napier picked up his glass and took a long drink, then let out a deep breath and set the glass back down. "What I was thinking," he said, nodding slightly, "was that we could work together. Cooperate, as it were." He glanced over at Thomas. "I let you interview me, or… whatever it is you want to do…" He wet his lips. "And _you…_ you continue to write those great articles of yours." He grinned at Thomas, leaning towards him slightly. "If it had been anyone else," he told him in a low voice, "I wouldn't be making this deal. But you're lucky… I like you."

He leaned back, his lopsided grin wide, and held out a hand towards Thomas. "What d'you say?" he asked, watching him intently. "Do we have a deal?"

"Overreacting?" Thomas sniped, disbelieving, as he took his seat once more. He didn't dare run for it now; no matter what the Joker said, he wasn't out of the red yet. He kneaded his knuckles into his eyes for a moment, then groaned and looked up at the barman - Tally, he supposed. "Get me a Guinness, I'm going to need it," he requested, and buried his face in his hands once more. It wasn't giving in to alcoholism, he told himself. It would help him get through this - whatever it was - in relatively one piece.

He'd screwed the pooch on this one. Setting up an interview with the psychotic killer that was turning the city inside out? Thomas wanted to bash his head into a wall until some common sense was knocked into it. Well, suffice it to say that this would be the last impromptu interview he ever set up.

"Guess that's comforting," he said in a mutter, before straightening up and seeming to collect himself. He'd get through this "interview", or whatever it was, with at least his dignity. It wouldn't be so horrible, if he thought about it. Getting information from a primary source was _always_ a positive thing - it was the first lesson they taught you in communications classes. And this would earn him credibility (and maybe a little more respect) among the citizens of Gotham. "Alright, deal," he told the Joker, nodding to himself. Then he paused and shot the other man a nervous sidelong glance. "I can't help but wonder what you'd've done if I said no."

Napier watched Thomas, frowning slightly as he ordered his drink, then finished off his own drink and nudged the glass forward towards the bartender. "Get me a Flying Scotsman, Tally," he said, rapping his knuckles lightly on the bar. "I'm pretty thirsty." He let out an exhale as he turned back to Thomas, considering him in an almost superior manner, though he doubted Thomas would catch his competitive quirk. It just set something off to see someone else drinking and to be foolishly sipping at a mocktail beside them. He waited until Tally set the drink down in front of him, then picked it up and sipped at it, licking his lips at the dull, burning sensation.

"Now_ that _is good," he said, nodding in approval. Then he turned back to Thomas. "Of course it's comforting," he said, leaning his elbows on the bar, casual. "It's always good to know you aren't some crazy killer's next victim. And as long as you keep writing those articles, it will continue to be a comforting thought." He grinned, poking at the ice in his glass with his fingers, then picked up the glass, clinked the ice around a little, and took a long, satisfying drink. "Flying Scotsman," he mused, shaking his head as he set down the glass, staring at the ice cubes. "You know, people are so _creative_ sometimes." Then he pointed to the glass, looking up at Tally. "I'll have another," he said with a nod. "That was pretty good."

Then Napier looked over at Thomas. "If you'd said no?" he asked. He stroked his chin thoughtfully as Tally filled up his glass and handed it back to him, then shrugged, taking the glass and taking a sip. "I'm not sure," he answered truthfully. "I like you, so… I probably would've done something paltry. Like…" He paused, tilting his head back and forth as he thought about it, then glanced over at Thomas. "Like shoving needles under your toenails and sticking your hands into two blenders. Then, because I wouldn't want you to scream… it would_ pain_ me to hear you scream, since I like you… I'd rip out your vocal cords. And probably then I'd cut you a nice Chelsea grin… _just for fun_." He smiled genially at Thomas. "Aren't you glad you said yes?" he asked, taking another sip of his drink.

Napier traced the rim of his glass with the tips of two fingers, then turned to Thomas. "So tell me, Thomas," he said, his dark eyes straying back to his glass, "what exactly turned you into such a bitter person? Because most everyone else here in Gotham who isn't, you know… like me…" He swallowed, thinking. "They're always trying to put a happy spin on shit. Shooting sunshine up one another's asses to try to make the best out of some fucking godawful situation…" He chuckled as his description grew darker, and his eyes returned to Thomas. "I'm glad you're not like them," he said, raising his eyebrows. He took another sip of his drink. "Otherwise you'd probably be wasting your talent writing stories to benefit _the Batman._"

He set his drink back down, reminding himself that competition did not mean he had to get carried away. He wet his lips, looking back at Thomas, and grinned at him. "You tell me a story, I'll tell you one, if you want," he said. Then he looked down at his nails. They needed to be trimmed, but he would worry about that later. "Or I'll tell you about my latest killing," he offered. His dark eyes returned to Thomas' face. "It will be newspaper _gold,_" he assured him. "Not even the police have found out about this one. It's _brand new._" His awful grin widened. "I'll even give you all the gory details about it… if you think you can handle it."

Thomas dully watched the bartender deliver the new drink, and glanced between it and Napier for a moment before draining his own glass. He still felt shocked at this sudden turn of events; he needed to numb that a bit, or he'd go totally insane. "Two," he told Tally, holding up two fingers then pointing at Napier's drink to indicate what he wanted.

His tired eyes turned back to Napier and he winced. "Yes, I'm _glad I said yes_," he muttered, shifting backward in his seat. All it took was one measly threat to remind him that this wasn't one of his drinking buddies. He curled his toes instinctively and turned his eyes back down the counter. A glass was placed in front of him then; he stared at it for a moment, then picked it up and drained it in a gulp. He set one elbow on the counter and rested his head on his upturned palm.

Then he considered Napier again. "Bitter?" The word sounded funny...not completely accurate. "Not really. I'd like to think of it as realistic." He rubbed his neck, stiff from doing nothing but stare at news feeds on a computer all day. Regardless of what _he_ considered himself, was it wise to answer?

On one hand, Napier promised more information if he did. On the other, Napier was an infamous murderer who would likely use whatever Thomas told him in his twisted games.

"It was my wife," he ended up answering. "She was a reporter, just like me. One of the good ones; she _always_ got the latest scoop on criminal activity, and she ended up helping the police out on a lot of cases." He smiled faintly. Emily'd always been proud of her work. She loved the justice system. Then the grin faded. "One time she went too far. She got one of the ring leaders arrested, and nobody liked that. If I'd have known how much trouble we'd be in...if I'd have known what was going on..." He raised his hands helplessly, trying to find what to say. After a moment, he let them drift back down the counter. "But I didn't. And then...she was shot. Just like that. I was out at work, and I came back to the apartment, and..." His frown deepened, and he looked up at Napier. "The police didn't do a damn thing. I probably didn't have enough money to interest them...At least, not as much as the other guys."

He shoved the glass away, leaning back with crossed arms. "I'd like for the city to know what their precious police force is really all about. Money, corruption...it's too real." He gazed off into space. "Things shouldn't be...like that." Then his eyes darted back to Napier. "Your turn. Your latest murder. All the gory details."

Napier watched Thomas intently, his brow furrowing slightly as Thomas ordered another drink from Tally. As little as Napier would have liked to admit it, his obnoxiously competitive streak was starting to kick in, and he could not stand to sit aside and give in to the idea that he had a problem. He did not have a problem, he told himself. He picked up his own glass and drained it, then set it down on the counter and turned to Tally. "Get me another glass of that, Tally," he said, indicating towards the glass. Then he turned back to Thomas, amused as he watched Thomas squirm at the thought of what had been one of Napier's less extreme torture devices.

"You're a smart guy, I'll give you that," Napier said, grinning at him. He took up his now-full drink and took a long sip, then set it back down, running the tip of his tongue over his lips. "And realistic views of the world can sometimes be bitter ones," Napier said, shrugging. "It's all in the eye of the beholder, really." He picked up his drink, clinking the ice cubes against the sides of the glass thoughtfully. "I mean, look at me," he said, indicating himself. "I used to have such a sunny disposition, back in the day… and look where it's got me." He frowned slightly, taking a sip of his drink. "But now at least I'm always smiling," he added in an undertone.

Napier set his drink down and wet his lips, nodding along with Thomas' story, dark eyes dwelling on his glass as he took in the details of the man's tale. So Thomas had once had a wife, and he, like Napier, had lost her, and so he, like Napier, begun drinking. Napier raised an eyebrow, his eyes returning to Thomas as the reporter finished his story. "She got shot?" he asked, slightly monotone. "Any idea who did it?" He watched Thomas for a moment, picking up his drink and finishing it, then set it back down and motioned to Tally to fill it again.

"Was it one of Falcone's thugs?" Napier asked. "They've been such a menace, the past few years." He picked up his once-again-full drink and took a thoughtful sip, watching Thomas' expression. "Y'know, I hear they're still around somewhere… though now the city's shakin' at the feet of some prick called Warren White. You ever hear of him?" He shook his head then, setting his glass back down. "But that's unimportant," he said. "I promised you gory details, I'll give you gory details." He wet his lips, his eyes moving away from Thomas' face, and opened his mouth, considering what to say.

"There was this guy, see…" he began. He paused. How to tell Thomas about the murder would be tricky. He looked back at Thomas. "He… We weren't exactly the _best of friends_. He did some stuff in his past that… was not quite _agreeable_ with me." He cleared his throat, thinking, and wet his lips again. "Well, if you want to lead the police right to him," he said, leaning forward slightly, "you'll find him in the old abandoned blacksmith shop. You know, the one that burned down all those years ago, with that big fire, and now everyone thinks it's haunted and shit…"

He waved it off, then went on. "That's where he is. Though, uh, you might want to brace yourself before you go inside to find him." A slight smirk quirked at one corner of his mouth. "He's not exactly… how shall I say…" He considered how to word it, then said, "Well, he's… a little…" He paused again, frowning. Then he looked at Thomas and said, "He doesn't have a head." He paused a moment, then finished off his drink and set the glass back down on the bar with a satisfied sigh. Then he looked back up at Thomas. "So tell me, Thomas…" He paused, considering what he wanted to ask the reporter. "Now I've got you here… why don't you tell me a little about the world above?"

Napier wet his lips. "I mean, how is everything holding up in the world of the plentiful?" he asked. "The place where people with too much money buy things they don't really need just to buy it, and beautiful women go on dates with the highest bidder." He smirked. "Somewhere over the rainbow," he added, somewhat bitterly.

"You. Had a sunny disposition." Thomas' tone, flat and toneless, expressed his disbelief rather well. Maybe he was biased, but he couldn't see the Joker as anything but that. He was a criminal. He didn't "used to be" anything.

But he pushed aside his skepticism when Napier began to describe the murder, pulling a pen out of his pocket (he _always_ had one on hand; one never knew when, oh, say, an infamous criminal would start spilling his deepest, darkest secrets) and scribbling furiously on a napkin. Decapitated...that was a new one. The Joker really had a creative, albeit morbid, streak in him. He nodded at the description of the shop; he didn't know the place, but the city tended to keep tabs on old, abandoned spots. After all, where better to find a criminal?

He chose to ignore the further questions about Emily. It was far too touchy of a subject for him still. He wondered if that might be a bad thing; it had been nearly a year, after all, and he was still grieving. People dealt with their grief in different ways, he assured himself, finishing the alcohol in front of him. Some ways may be better than others, but who was he to judge?

Thomas caught himself a moment before he thanked Napier, instead poking at his glass again. Tally came by almost immediately with raised eyebrows, looking at the glass. Thomas nodded. He was barely feeling a buzz, he could stand a bit more. Just a bit, though, he promised himself. In response to Napier's question, he said, "Oh, the usual things. Bruce Wayne - I suppose you know him," he told Jack with a smirk. "He's been up to his usual mischief. Guy's totally insane, if you ask me."

He winced at his word choice, chancing a glance at Napier, and tapped a finger on the bar. A look of enlightenment sprang into his eyes. Maybe it was bad to ask a question out of personal curiosity, since this may have been the only chance he'd get to actually _interview the Joker_, but..."That shooting," he finally said, turning the question over in his mind. "While back. You were...robbing a bank, I think. Not far from here." He frowned, sobering up a bit. "But one of the guys with you was shot. What happened there?" He leaned back in his seat, boozy smile again settling over his features. "I mean, one of the _Joker's_ guys gets shot? Something's screwed up there."

Then he settled back down in his chair, hurrying to go on. "Harvey Dent's being his grand old self. Too grand, if you ask me. And he deals too much with Gordon." He nodded to himself. "I'll bet there's some secrets that guy's hiding. But anyways, nothing besides that. I mean, the entire city's up in flames over you," he nodded to Napier, "and some other guy who escaped Arkham a while back that the police still haven't caught. Crane, I think it was. You know, that nutter behind the Narrows incident a month or so ago?" Thomas would hazard a guess that Napier knew who he was talking about. Crime, funny as it was, brought people together in this town. Hell, maybe they'd _worked_ together at some point.

"You sound so sceptical," Napier said, frowning slightly. "I was just like you, once." He considered his statement, his dark eyes straying. "Well, not _just_ like you," he corrected himself. "But... similar." He pushed his empty glass forward and nodded to Tally. "I think I'll try something creative this time," he said with a grin. "Surprise me. Gimme something new and exciting." He watched as Tally took his glass, looking remarkably dour the whole time, and began to mix something up. Napier lost track of what was being put into the glass, and turned back to Thomas, suddenly realizing that he felt slightly tipsy. Perhaps it was the four glasses of scotch in rapid succession. He blinked, trying to clear his head and appear as sober as possible, then grinned at Thomas.

"Yeah, I've heard of Bruce Wayne," Napier said, nodding. "Always got a babe on his arm, or two, or three..." He chuckled, then looked up when Tally placed his drink in front of him. "Thanks," he said, picking up the drink and toasting the bartender with it. He grinned amiably at Tally. "You didn't put poison in this or anything, right?" he joked. Tally glared at him, stolidly silent. Napier stared at him, the slightly uncomfortable grin plastered on his face. Then he turned away towards Thomas again. "Always such a reassuring fellow," Napier said in an undertone, taking a sip of his drink. It was strong, whatever it was, and Napier had to pause a moment before continuing his conversation with Thomas.

"Ah, good old Harvey Dent," Napier said with a bitter smile. "He fucks everyone – even the economy is fucked because of Harvey Dent!" He chuckled at his own slight pun, taking another sip of his drink. "But it's all good, because he's got that movie star smile and, for god's sake, fellas, this guy's the one who puts all the bad guys behind bars!" He shook his head then, frowning. "Harvey Dent is incompetent and inexperienced. Maybe if he'd lived on the streets, himself, for a few years, he'd know how to help Gotham. All he's doing is making it a little prettier by putting up huge billboards of his grinning mug." Napier let out a huff of laughter. "If it were up to me, I'd certainly put a smile on that face," he muttered, taking another drink.

Then he paused, thinking. "Crane," Napier said in a dark undertone. He looked away from Thomas, setting his drink down on the counter, his fingers playing over the glass. Then he picked up the glass and drained it, setting it back down on the counter with a soft, irritated thud. "Crane is... flashy and juvenile," Napier spat, looking back at Thomas. "He always glorifies himself, but for what? Deep down, he's just the kid on the playground that nobody wanted to play with 'cause he wore duct-taped glasses and ankle-socks."

Napier tipped his glass towards him, frowning at the emptiness, then set it out for Tally to refill. "Another, Tally," he said, forgetting his playful formalities.

Thomas began turning to look at Tally, but stopped suddenly, a somewhat bold smile stretching his lips. "You're..." he began, looking at Jack. He glanced at the cup in the man's hands, then at his own, and started laughing. "Oh, god, don't tell me we're _competing_," he exclaimed in a near-shout, drawing some curious glances from the groups still seated in the eating area. Maybe it was just the alcohol talking, but something about the situation just tickled his funny bone. He leaned forward, laughing hard and squeezing his eyes shut. He nearly swayed off of his barstool.

"Competing?" Napier laughed at this, almost embarrassed that it was true. "If that's what you wanna call it," he said. He picked up the now-full glass and took a long drink of it, then set it back down with a huff of breath. A familiar warmth was starting to fill up inside of him, and suddenly he was much more comfortable talking to Thomas about things that would otherwise have been hard to disclose.

After a moment, Thomas straightened up, tears in his eyes. He brushed them away with the back of his hand, finally pushing his glass toward Tally. "Whatever the fuck he's got, I want one," he barked, still grinning like a lunatic. Competition was just fine with him. He could hold his alcohol. Sort of. "_Christ_, that's funny," he murmured, letting out one last chuckle before looking back up at Jack. "Sorry 'bout that. Um, anyways..."

It took him a moment to regain his train of thought. "Yeah. That Dent guy...yeah. He's got it coming," he said weakly, nodding thankfully at Tally as his new drink was delivered. It packed a punch; he smacked his lips, pleased, and set it down after just a sip. "And I don't know much about Crane, but you're probably right. Usually are, anyways…

"So what happened?" The question was out in the open before Thomas could stop himself. His curiosity had gotten the best of him. Hell, the entire _city_ would be reading his articles if he got the story behind the Joker's twisted smile. Now he just had to bank on the hope that Jack didn't decide to kill him for being a nuisance.

Napier looked up when Thomas asked about his scars, and his grin widened. That was his favourite part of any interview… telling his scar stories.

"Would you like to know how I got my scars?" Napier asked, leaning forward towards Thomas and grinning. He paused, thinking, his head fuzzy with liquor, then started, "When I was younger, about five years ago… I was married to this woman named Kitty." He shook his head. "I loved Kitty like no other, an' she loved me. The only problem was, neither of us had any money, an' no matter how hard we worked, there were always bills to pay. We didn't have a house, since all we could afford was a little apartment. We barely managed to scrape together enough money for a little wedding. But we did it…"

He paused, thinking on his story. "Well, we're just barely managing along when one day, Kitty comes to me an' tells me she's pregnant. This would be wonderful news, but…" He let out a deep breath. "We were so poor, I didn't think we would be able to take care of a baby. I mean, we could barely take care of ourselves…" He shook his head again, looking away at his empty glass, tipping it forward as if he could find the rest of his story at the bottom of it. "But I was happy for her… I mean, I was gonna be a father." He looked up at Thomas again. "That's the greatest feeling in the world," he told him with a faint smile.

Napier turned away, thinking, and took a breath. "Everything seemed to be going well for a while," he said. "We didn't have the money for doctor visits, so we just took care of everything ourselves… we were doing just fine, for a while…" He looked over at Thomas, raising his eyebrows. "It was such a smooth pregnancy… not a single problem. We thought we were going to make it…" His voice trailed off, and he looked away, staring back at his glass. "Then one day, Kitty agreed to take an extra shift at work… you know, try to earn an extra few dollars in tips."

He hesitated, unsure if he wanted to continue his story, then went on, "I went to pick her up from work. It was nighttime, and we didn't have a car…" He scoffed. "It wasn't like we could afford one," he said bitterly. "Hell, we could barely afford to pay the rent on our apartment, let alone…" He stopped, taking a breath, and then continued, "I came to pick her up from work, and on our way home, we were stopped by these three thugs in an alleyway." He stared down into the bottom of his glass, frowning. "One guy had a gun. He pointed it at me an' Kitty… Don't be a hero, he said. Just hand over the money." Napier shrugged. "So I did," he said. He paused, then looked over at Thomas. "But he wasn't through," he said.

"I gave him my wallet, and Kitty's tips, and I tried to shield Kitty… but then they went after her." His frown deepened. "They wanted to rape her," he said, his voice started to get weak. "A helpless, pregnant woman… and they wanted to rape her." He set his glass down, trying to regain his composure. "Of course, I wasn't about to stand by and let them do that," he said, shaking his head. "I fought back. I went for the guy with the gun, and I told Kitty to run, get the police…" He took a breath. "She ran," he said. "But the guys… they weren't happy with me."

He glanced over at Thomas again, making sure he was still listening. "The guy with the gun… he was the leader," he said. "He got the other guys to pin me… they were strong, too, and I was tired from working all day long… And the guy with the gun, he pulls out this switchblade, and he says, 'You think you're so fuckin' clever, huh?'" He stopped, looking away again. The story was getting hard to get through. "And he took this switchblade," he said, "and while the other two guys held me, he sliced open my face… like this." He indicated his scars. "Then he and his thugs beat me up and left me in the alleyway."

Napier absently traced the line of his scars with his fingertips, thinking. "I went looking for Kitty soon after that," he said, "but I couldn't find her anywhere." He shook his head, thoughtful. "I looked for months for her… I asked everyone who might've seen her… I reported her to Missing Persons, but…" He shrugged. "I never found her. She wasn't in the hospital records when I tried to look for her, for when she finally had her baby…" He put his head in his hand. "That's when I started drinking," he said, indicating his empty glass. "Trying to forget Kitty… and everything that went with her."

He looked over at Thomas. "Now, five years later, I finally figured out what happened to her," he told him. He looked away again. "I talked to an old friend the other day," he said. "He said… she was dead." He shook his head. "All my efforts," he said quietly, "and she died anyways." He thought about it for a moment, and then shrugged. "And that's my story," he said.

Napier took a moment, then picked up his glass and moved it forward. "Fill it up, Tally," he said. "I need it."

Maggie gingerly fixed a few flyaway hairs as she entered the main room of the lounge, looking around for Os. She had not seen him for a while, and it was starting to get late. Maggie checked the clock on the wall, then looked up to where Tally was patiently fixing the drinks of two regulars. Maggie recognized them instantly; one was the reporter from the local paper, and the other was the Joker. It took her a moment to get over the shock of seeing the two of them conversing like friends, but she decided not to ask. The affairs of Gotham's criminals were really none of her business. She left that kind of thing to Os.

Maggie moved forward towards the bar, fixing her furs and jewellery as she did so, and smiled genially at Tally, putting a hand on his large forearm. "You've been on duty for hours, Tally," she said. "Why don't you take a break? I'll take over for a little bit." Tally nodded silently, then moved out from behind the bar and walked away, disappearing into the crowd. Maggie moved behind the bar, pulling off her fur coat and setting it aside as she did so, then looked up at the two regulars with an amiable smile.

"So, how are you boys doing this evening?" she asked, pulling out two clean glasses and setting them out in front of her. She raised her eyebrows, slightly concerned, as she watched them laughing like loose schoolboys, but tried to keep up her smile. "You guys started a little before me, didn't ya?" she asked, trying to sound friendly, but her naturally motherly nature was starting to creep in. Os would be peeved at her if she did not do her job, though, so she picked up a bottle and started to fill one of the glasses.

"You look like you're running a little low," she said, uncomfortable. "Would you like a refill? What're you boys drinking?" She filled a glass and set it down on the counter, seeing if either would take it. "And what's the juicy gossip tonight, Mister Reporter?" she asked, leaning on her elbow and looking towards Thomas. "I take it some of this is going to be in tomorrow's paper."

Thomas sobered up quickly (not in the literal sense, of course; he was still nearly tipping off of his seat) at the story. And he'd thought _he_ had it bad. He looked down at the bar top, just thinking. This Kitty had been pregnant. He and Emily had only been married. Sure, they were planning for kids, but...it hadn't happened like this.

In the one person that Thomas related to least in the city, he had found someone with a past as close to his as he could get.

Then he finally glanced up at Jack again, frowning. "Why didn't y'go after those guys?" he asked, genuinely curious. "I mean, you must've _looked_ for 'em. Couldn't just...Just _leave_ them." This was the _Joker_ he was talking to, after all. If he wanted someone dead, they were dead. Maybe he had his reasons. Didn't make sense to Thomas, but who was he to say?

His thoughts were interrupted by the new bartender. He grinned at her, glancing at his empty cup and shrugging. "Don't know _what_ that guy was givin' us," he said lazily, turning the glass around with his hand. "Some strong shit, whatever it was." Then he turned his bright smile to her fully. "An' of _course_ it is. Isn't every day y'get an interview with the _Joker_, for chrissakes, right?"

"Something strong...?" Maggie asked, lost.

"It's called a one-nine-hundred," Cobblepot cut in, leaning on the counter beside Thomas. He slipped onto the barstool, his half-smoked cigarette smouldering lazily in his hand. He brought it to his lips and took a long drag, then let the smoke seep from his mouth. "It's Tally's specialty," he said with a sigh, raising his eyebrows. "He learned it while he was working for that skeeze Warren White."

"One-nine-hundred?" Maggie asked. She held up her hands, lost. "I don't know how to make that."

Cobblepot waved her off, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter," he said. "It's a terrible concoction, anyways. It's for poor fucks who just want to get drunk quick." Cobblepot glanced over at Thomas and Napier, then let out an unimpressed huff of breath and took another drag of his cigarette. "Maybe you can get him to teach you how to make it when he gets off his break," Cobblepot suggested. "Until then, I think these two will do just fine with vodka shots."

"Where'd Tally go?" Napier asked, frowning over at Cobblepot.

Cobblepot exhaled smoke, looking unimpressed. "He's on his break," he answered. "He needs a little fresh air, too, once in a while." He glanced over at Napier. "Some men have more needs in life than pussy and booze," he said.

Napier paused, then answered, "I thought you liked cock."

Cobblepot stared at him for a long, silent moment, indifferent. Then he stubbed out his cigarette in the ash tray and stood from the bar. "Some people have no class," he muttered, then walked away.

Napier watched him walk away, then turned back to Thomas. "What was I _s'posed_ t' do?" he asked, defensive. "I mean, I dunno what happened to her. I told her to run, an' I took on the guys, myself… I don' think they were th' ones that did anything to her." He paused, thinking about it. "I dunno what happened to her," he repeated, his voice distant, his dark eyes straying. Then he turned back to Thomas. "I mean, I couldn' jus' start killin' every guy in Gotham 'til I came across my wife's killer."

Maggie looked up at this. "What?" she asked.

Napier looked over at her. "Well, I couldn't," he argued. "That wouldn't make any sense. How would Gotham reproduce?"

"No, no," Maggie said, pointing at him, "what you said after that… about your wife."

"Um…" Napier thought back on his statement, but it was hard to do. Then he shook his head. "My wife's dead," he said, looking up at Maggie, hoping that was what she was talking about.

Maggie tossed down her glass-cleaning rag and shook her head. "No, she's not," she said, sounding somewhat triumphant.

Napier slit his eyes at her, staring at her incredulously. "What'd you say?" he asked.

"Your wife," said Maggie. "She isn't dead."

"But..." Napier looked away, confused. "But... Gerald said she died!"

"I don't know Gerald," Maggie said, "but someone fitting your wife's description, whose name was Kitty, came in here just the other day... might've even been yesterday." She paused, thinking. "She was with a man," she said. "But she didn't look too happy to be around him. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was holding her against her will."

Napier stared at Maggie for another long moment. Then he picked up the glass of liquor and downed it, and then stood unsteadily from his seat. He leaned on the bar counter towards her, frowning. "You say my wife's still alive?" he asked.

"I _know_ she is," Maggie said, nodding assuredly.

Napier nodded, too. "You wouldn't lie t' me, would you, Maggie?" he asked, his speech slurring. "You wouldn't lie t' me on something so important, would you?"

"I would never lie to you," Maggie said, putting her hand over her heart. "Your wife is still alive. I swear it."

Napier stared at Maggie for another long moment, then turned away. "Good seein' you, Thomas," he said as he headed for the door. "But I got some unfinished business I still gotta attend to." And with that, he was out the door.

Thomas looked up at Jack, confused, as he said something about unfinished business and disappeared. Then he glanced between Maggie and Cobblepot, and shrugged. "Don' know what th'fuck _that_ was about," he muttered, mostly to himself. Then he stood up; or, at least attempted to. He leaned heavily on the counter, finally feeling the effects of the liquor.

He glanced up at the clock. Nearly eight. "I better get goin'..." he told the other two, settling his balance and leaning away from the counter. "Don' want to be out too..." He paused, shock momentarily sobering him. "Ah, shit, I'm supposed to meet with _Maria,_" he moaned.

He was in no state to be conducting interviews, that much was clear. He waffled for a full minute, alcohol-saturated brain slowly weighing the possibilities. In the end, he turned to Maggie. "Hey, this gal with brown hair, kind of tall...she'll be coming in here soon. Goes by Maria Goodhart. Could you let her know that I had to...erm...resched'le?" he requested, putting a hand to his head. He ought to go sit down somewhere and sleep this off. "Thanks." Without waiting for a reply, he slowly trudged out of the Iceberg Lounge, hoping that Maria wouldn't be too angry with him.


	54. Chapter FiftyThree

A casino. A dirty, rotten, loan-sharking casino. And in the Narrows, to boot.

This almost wasn't worth it, as far as Jeanette was concerned.

She'd spent nearly fifteen minutes walking - alone! alone, in the Narrows! - down the twisting and turning streets of Gotham's underbelly, simply because she didn't want anyone to know where she was going. The cab had dropped her off at the edge of the Narrows, its driver giving her a very strange look - probably due to the expensive-looking, slinky dress she wore - before zooming off into the night again. Thankfully, he'd left before she could give in to temptation and either snap at him or shoot him.

The handgun sitting at the bottom of her purse was a comfort. If she had any luck, the guards wouldn't check (she nearly snickered at that), and she'd be allowed to keep it just in case. If not, she'd just have to live with it. Something told her that White wasn't the sort of person who would turn away a pretty face.

Or maybe that was just some pointless optimism that would end up getting her killed. She frowned and approached the casino doors.

The place was grungy and exactly what she'd expected. A bouncer stood at the front door, smoking lazily as he watched her walk up. He gave her the once-over typical of lower-city sleazeballs and grinned. "What're you doing down here, dollface?" he asked when she got close. "Got business around here?" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, eyes drifting down to her chest. "Fuck, I know _I'd_ buy a piece of tha-"

She cut him off before he could finish. "I'm here to see Wh...Warren, actually," she said with a smile. It might be better to fake familiarity with White. "Any way you could maybe...help me out?"

He sighed. "Wish I could, sweetheart, but you need the right _ins_ to get _in_ this place." He paused and snickered, obviously finding his pathetic attempt at humor hilarious. "But, you know, we could just spend some time out here, you and me..." he suggested, tapping the dead ashes of the cigarette into a gutter.

"Tempting." Jeanette struggled to put more conviction in her tone. "But I really do need to see Warren, though." She finally remembered what Cobblepot had told her. She shrugged and said, with a regretful sigh, "Guess I'll just have to tell Oswald that I wasn't let in..."

"Wait, wait, Oswald?" She nodded. "Oswald _Cobblepot?_" he asked again, and again she nodded, a smile edging up her mouth. "Well, why didn't you just _say_ so?" he said with a nervous laugh. He tugged the door open as she fixed her hair. "Sorry to keep you waiting so long," he said, suddenly polite and cordial. "You can go on in."

She smiled sweetly at him and brushed by to get in the door.

Inside, music was pumping and lights were flashing. She could hardly find her way around, so instead of looking for White she got to a wall and stayed there, slowly adjusting to the dim lighting. How was she supposed to find the guy in a place like this?

. . .

Another success for Duke, another success for White. The Rottweiler had ripped open the throat of the opponent's Pit Bull and White had laughed as the stumpy white bitch had bled to death on the dusty floor of the ring. Now that the fight was over, Duke had been put up for the night and White had resurfaced to see who had come to pay his casino a visit. Selina was off whoring herself to Bruce Wayne, which left White eligible and randy. On top of that, the wad of bills he had won in the fight was burning a hole in his pocket, and he wanted to spend it on someone pretty tonight.

White lit up a new Cuban cigar and puffed at it, his own cigar only adding to the already-smoky atmosphere of the casino. White had originally planned for the place to be a club, but when he discovered how much more money casinos made, he ordered in machines of all kinds. Now the patrons had a selection: when they got tired of gambling, they could rave, and when they got tired of raving, they could gamble. And when they just got plain tired, there were exclusive, expensive bedrooms upstairs. One was always reserved for White, as he had the only key. Not even Selina had been given a spare.

White played with the room key as he made his way across the smoky casino, looking around every so often, doing his usual assessment of all the women in the club. Some had a nice rack but no ass, and some had a nice ass but no rack. It frustrated White, who was feeling like he deserved something a little more tangible than money for his victory in the dog ring. He already had enough money as it was; what he really needed was a good lay. And that was when he say the familiar curvy form of a woman, who had secluded herself against one of the walls of the casino. White purred through his teeth, biting eagerly at his cigar, and started over towards her.

"Well hello there, beautiful," White drawled, taking his cigar from his teeth and indicating the curvy woman with it. She was a looker, he thought, damn. Nice body, nice face, not like those girls with the great bodies and the faces that made him want to put a paper bag over their heads when he put it to them. He grinned at her, then, "Don't I know you?" he asked. "I coulda swore I'd seen you around before." He put up a hand. "Don't tell me," he said, shaking his head. "You're the one that came in here with old Os, ain't ya?" He nodded, putting the cigar back in his teeth. "Yeah," he said, nodding to himself. "I remember you real good. Remember thinkin' how… goddamn _sexy _you were."

White chuckled, looking her up and down. "Lemme let you in on a little secret," he said, lowering his voice. He took a step nearer to Jeanette and leaned in close to her. "You like this place?" he asked, grinning. "Yeah? I own this place." He clicked through his teeth at her. "Pretty sweet get-up, huh?" He puffed at his cigar, considering her. Then he leaned in even further. "Tell you what," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "I got a little room upstairs, reserved, usually, but… if you wanna take this key an' go on up there…" He pulled the key out of his pocket and held it out to her. "I'll be right up in a few."

White winked at her. "It's the _VIP_ room," he told her with a grin.

Jeanette sighed, making it sound wistful instead of exasperated, as her original intention had been. Same old White. Same old sleazy, disgusting, vulgar White.

Well, this would have been a hell of a lot harder if it _wasn't_ same old White.

She smiled appreciatively around at the club, resisting the urge to cough at the foul odor of his cigar. Alright, now (she had to admit) she was just being biased; she'd enjoyed the nasty things herself, _many_ times. Or maybe it wasn't the cigar at all that was making her want to gag. White was, without a doubt, one of the most disgusting men she'd ever met.

Her father was going to pay dearly for this.

She took the key promptly, heading right for the stairs. Going past White, she paused with a coy smile, leaning towards his ear. "You're going to have to work a lot..." She glanced down, raised her eyebrows, and smirked. "_Harder_," she finished, "than that." She brushed by without a second glance.

Upstairs was much quieter than the main room; soundproof insulation must have been installed between the two floors, or something, Jeanette thought as she unlocked the door directly at the top of the stairs. It seemed White liked convenience. She was sure he needed it. He'd had that key ready, as if he were just _looking_ for someone to give it to. All the better for her.

The room inside was large, with space for one enormous, luxuriously-dressed bed against the far wall. She shut the door behind her, then went to the bed and sat down, wondering exactly how long this would take. Not long, hopefully. She wanted to get home and make sure Jack was dealing all right with his daughter. And, though she wouldn't admit it, she was _extremely_ curious about his little "meeting." Who was this associate of his, who wasn't a criminal? Someone Jack had known before the accident?

White was feeling mighty full of himself as he crossed to the bar and sat down on one of the bar stools, puffing on his cigar. Tonight had to be a new record for him. Usually he had to weed through all of the women in the club to find one half as fine as the one he had found almost instantaneously this time, and even then it usually took a bit of convincing to get them to take the key and head up to his VIP Room. He chuckled to himself, pleased, and looked up at the bartender. "Get me a scotch on the rocks, will you, Rosa?" he said.

Rosa, a hefty Hispanic woman with a tattoo of the flower she had been named for printed on her voluptuous left breast, picked up a glass, dumped a few ice cubes into it, and then poured a full glass of scotch over it before handing it to White. "Got yourself a girl, Señor?" she asked, her voice low and raspy, as if she had smoked too many cigarettes in her life.

White grinned at her as he picked up the scotch and indicated her with it. "You betcha, Rosa," he said, and took a drink. Then his smile faded slightly as he glanced down at his watch. He sighed, impatient, and then looked back up at Rosa. "Hey," he said, setting down his glass, "any word from the guy who was s'posed to come an' talk with me tonight?"

Rosa shrugged, shaking her head. "Not yet, Señor," she said. "Sorry."

White shook his head, putting up a hand. "It ain't your fault, Rosa," he assured her. He picked up the glass of scotch and downed it, then winked at Rosa and got up from his bar stool. "Put that on my tab, 'kay?" he said with a smile. He put his cigar back in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully at it, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his fancy suit-jacket as he started up the stairs, humming slightly to himself. He stopped when he reached the door of the VIP Room, grinning, and knocked on it. "You naked yet?" he asked, half-joking. He smoothed back his greying hair, making sure it stayed in place, and fixed a seductive smile on his face, then opened the door and let himself inside.

"Well, _hello,_ there," he said, his voice low and drawling, and shut the door behind him, locking it. He slipped out of his jacket and tossed it aside onto an armchair. "Shall we get busy, or did you want to have a heart-to-heart first?" he asked. "I see you aren't undressed..." A grin split his face. "You want me to do it for you?" he asked, raising his eyebrows at her.

Jeanette's head shot up, expression switching from contemplative to eager in less than a second as White entered the room. She considered his comment, tilting her head to the side. Then she got up from the bed and moved closer, letting her hands drift down his sides and rest on top of his hands. She moved them purposefully to her lower back, leaning forward and brushing her lips past his cheek with a coy grin.

"Just _one_ quick question," she murmured, tracing her fingers back up his arms and around to his shoulders, tracing little circles there. She might hate this, but the quicker she was finished with this job, the better, so she'd dump on all the seduction she could manage. "I thought you and this other woman were...an item," Jeanette began "Kyle...something Kyle." A distinct memory of the woman came to Jeanette. Something labeled her as competition, but it wasn't for White. No, it was something else...

She remembered the night at the bar. _Last_ night, she corrected herself. Had it really been only a night ago? Regardless, she now remembered seeing Kyle draping herself all over Napier. Jeanette wasn't _jealous_, she told herself, just mildly curious. What had Kyle been _doing_? She was dating White; at least, that was the word lately.

She pushed the thought from her mind, pressing herself against White, finally asking, "She do something to upset you?"

White's eyebrows shot up as Jeanette entwined herself in his arms, literally wrapping him around her. White was only too happy to oblige with her seductive lead, and took the cigar out of his mouth as she brushed her lips past his face. If she wanted to get right to it, he had no problem with that. In fact, he would be glad to find a woman after his own heart. He grinned, but the grin instantly faded when she began asking questions. So the broad wanted some answers before she took off her clothes. That was fine, as long as she wasn't asking anything too personal.

"Who?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow at her. "Selina Kyle? Eh, me an' Selina… we got a thing goin'. I buy her shit, she looks pretty, we get some good time in the sack, it's a win-win situation." He started to play with the shoulder of Jeanette's outfit. "Though she ain't here tonight," he said, his eyes travelling down her slender throat to her luscious collar-bone. "She's off makin' a slut of herself with some other lucky bastard." He chuckled then. "Can't say I'm surprised…" he admitted. "She's had the hots for some clean-money suits lately. Dunno what she sees in them."

White's grin widened as he traced a finger down the cut of Jeanette's top. "So," he said, tugging at the lowest part of the collar of her outfit. "Who's gonna get undressed first? Me or you, darlin'?" He ran his tongue over his teeth as he pulled his tie out from his buttoned collar, then began to unbutton his dress shirt. "I don't mind goin' first," he said. "Wouldn't wanna seem over-eager t' get you outta them clothes." He shook his head, letting out a satisfied breath, as if he could still not believe he had gotten Jeanette to agree to this so easily. "You are a stunner, babe," he said. "Anyone ever tell you that?"

White pulled off his dress shirt and put his cigar back into his mouth as he ran a hand down the grey hair on his chest, nodding seductively to Jeanette. "You know you want some of this," he said, holding out his arms. "Come to papa. Let's get you out of those uncomfortable clothes." He moved forward again, slipping his fingers under the shoulder of Jeanette's outfit again. "Have you been a bad girl?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at her with a grin. "'Cause then I'd have to spank you."

If White had been _trying_ to make her completely and utterly disgusted, he could not have done a better job.

As it was, Jeanette was expected to play along. She slid forward, running a hand up White's chest (cringing internally all the while), and smiled. "Well, that's all right, then," she mumbled, finally pushing her lips to his.

She looped her fingers into his belt and pulled him back towards the bed, keeping their mouths together so that she wouldn't have to listen to him _talk_. She was bent backwards over the mattress before she knew it, arms around his neck to keep her balance. She pulled back for a moment to catch her breath. "Of _course_ I haven't," she panted, attempting to save herself from even more misery. "I'm _always_ a good girl." She attempted to reach behind her back to grasp the zipper on the dress. A grin crept up the corners of her mouth. "I'm going to need some help with this," she pointed out.

She wasn't one to be crude, but at this point, any thought of morals she'd once had were practically in the dust (thanks to her father; the thought made her simmer). So she couldn't help but hope that Jack would be in the mood for a good lay when she got back. She had to somehow be able to forget about all this, and that was the best kind of therapy she could come up with at the moment.

White liked being in control. He pushed Jeanette up against the bed, wracking the springs as he pressed her back into the mattress. He reached behind her, mouthing her bare shoulder, as he began to unzip her dress. "I like you, baby," he panted, moving back to her mouth and kissing her lustily. Then he reached down and started to fumble with the zipper of his slacks. "You're quick an' dirty, like me," he chuckled gruffly, yanking the zipper of his slacks down with a forceful grunt.

White straddled Jeanette, pushing his slacks down his legs, and began to fumble with his boxers when suddenly the door opened and Rosa stood there, staring in at them with an expression on her face like she had seen this same scene a hundred times. White turned away from Jeanette, irritated. "Rosa, can't you see I'm busy?" he asked, frowning and indicating Jeanette.

"I am sorry, Señor White," Rosa rasped. "The man you wanted to talk to is here. I thought you would want to know."

"He's here?" White exclaimed, suddenly not upset anymore. He moved off of Jeanette and got out of bed, moving over to where he had abandoned his clothes, then reached down and picked up his dress shirt, slipping it on and beginning to button it up. "When did he get here?"

"Just a minute ago," Rosa answered, monotone. She stared at Jeanette, looking bored. "I came to tell you as soon as he got here."

"Thank you, Rosa," said White, picking up his tie and putting it on, followed by his jacket. He looked back over at Jeanette and shrugged, careless. "Sorry, doll-face," he said. "This is an important business meeting. You know how it is..." He pulled his slacks up to his waist and zipped them up, grinning. "I'll be right back. Don't you move a muscle." He winked at her, then turned and left, slamming the door behind him.

Don't move a muscle?

Screw him.

Jeanette had had all she could take for one night. She stood up the moment he shut the door and fixed her dress, zipping it up as far as she could reach. She'd have to try again some other time, she decided, smoothing down the ends of the dress and rearranging her hair. Sometime when he wasn't so _distracted_.

Her business attended to, she left the room, carefully making her way through the lower level of the club. She paused by the bar, noticing that the woman who had interrupted them - Rosa - was there. She moved closer and leaned over the bar, beckoning the other woman to come over. When she had, Jeanette said, "Could you be a doll and tell Warren I had to get going? Some..." She paused, then inspiration with a cruel streak struck her. "Some important business came up. _He_ knows how it is." She smiled icily at Rosa, then continued out to the front of the club.

She couldn't get back to the apartment quick enough. Jack wouldn't be back yet, she knew that even before she walked in the door. Whatever "business affairs" he had to take care of had obviously run late. "Jeannie Rose?" Jeanette called, heading into the guest bedroom to get some more comfortable clothes. "You here? Come out, come out, wherever you are." A playful lilt lent itself to her tone, and she smiled as she slipped out of the dress. "We could play a game, or something."

Jeanette's voice was a welcome breaker of the silence that had filled the apartment for more than the last half-hour. Jeannie Rose looked up instantly from poking her little fingers through a small hole in the edge of her skirt when she heard it, and a smile came to her face. "Miss Jeanette!" she exclaimed, jumping off the bed and running out of the bedroom. Jeannie Rose grabbed Jeanette's leg, hugging her as best she could, then looked up into her face, giggling. "I missed you, Miss Jeanette," she said. She held up her arms towards Jeanette. "Pick me up!" she said.

Once she was in Jeanette's arms, she put her arms around Jeanette's neck and smiled at her. "Daddy told me to be real good an' do what you say while he's gone," she told her. "So I'm gonna be real good. Whatever you tell me to do, I'm gonna do it." She rested her head on Jeanette's shoulder, snuggling up to the woman. "Daddy said he'd be back in a little bit," she said. "Then he said he'd play with me." She pulled away from Jeanette, looking into her face again, and smiled. "Do you think we can all play a game together, Miss Jeanette?" she asked. "All of us? Like a family."

Jeannie Rose took a lock of Jeanette's dark hair in one of her hands and played with it, then looked back up at Jeanette. "Let's play a game," she said. "While we're waiting for Daddy. Let's play a fun game." She let go of Jeanette's hair as she thought about it. "My mommie an' I, we used to play this game where, um… where one of us would hide, an' then the other would try to find 'em." She giggled. "I always won," she said, "'cause I was a better hider than my mommie. I always found her real easy, but she couldn't never find me." She bit her lip, then moved towards Jeanette and whispered, "I always hid under th' kitchen table. She never found me!"

Jeannie Rose giggled, then squirmed to be put down again. "I'm gonna hide first!" she said, scampering off. Then she stopped, pointing back at Jeanette. "You gotta count, silly," she said. She turned to run off again, then stopped again, looking back at Jeanette. "An' no peeking!" she said. Then, giggling, she turned and ran off to hide somewhere in the house.

Jeanette nodded along comically to everything the girl said, and set her down when she asked. She was very tempted to watch Jeannie Rose and find her right away, but put her hands over her eyes with a sigh when she was instructed to. She began to count.

"One, two, three..."

Every time the girl mentioned the word "family", it sent daggers through Jeanette's heart. She knew that she had to find Kitty, even if she didn't want to. It would be horrible to leave the woman with Crane. She shut her eyes tightly behind her hands.

Four, five, six..."

Then again, life could be absolutely _blissful_ if she didn't. She was happy. Didn't everyone, even someone like her, deserve some happiness in life? She could finally have a family, a _real_ family, not one that tried to take advantage of or kill her every time they saw her. She could leave the States, move back to Italy, stay below the radar so that her father couldn't find her...

"Seven, eight, nine..."

But there was Jeannie Rose to remember. She wouldn't be able to convince the girl that her mother had just disappeared. And they deserved to be reunited. It was the right thing to do.

Since when had Jeanette done the right thing? She could count on one hand the number of times she had helped someone out selflessly, without any thought of payment. She sighed.

"Ten."

She took her hands away from her eyes and wiped some moisture away from their corners, before calling, "Ready or not, here I come!" and beginning her search around the apartment.

Jeannie Rose peered out from underneath the kitchen table, trying to suppress a giggle as she listened to Jeanette counting. She was certain that Jeanette would not find her there; it was her best hiding spot. Her mother had never been able to find her when she had hidden there, so there was no reason Jeanette would be able to. Her mother knew her better than anyone, and Jeannie Rose was almost certain that Jeanette would not be able to figure out her ingenious hiding-space. She tucked up her knees, putting a hand over her mouth to hold in another giggle.

She pulled up the edge of the table-cloth when she heard Jeanette finish counting, anxiously anticipating her coming around, looking for her. She peeked out from under the table to see where Jeanette was, and when she saw her, she instantly ducked back into her hiding-space with a giggle. She fiddled with one of her honey curls as she sat cross-legged under the table, just waiting for Jeanette to admit defeat. This game was Jeannie Rose's forte; no one could beat her at hide-and-seek.

"Miss Jeanette's never gonna find me," she whispered to herself, smiling away. She glanced over in the direction of the door; perhaps her daddy would want to play a game of hide-and-seek with her when he got back from wherever it was he was going. Even with her daddy looking for her, she was sure that no one would be able to find her in her expert hiding-place. Jeannie Rose peeked out from under the table again, then retreated back under with a giggle.

"I'm gonna win," she told herself in an undertone.

Jeanette hadn't played hide-and-seek for a _very_ long time. She was tempted to wait until Jeannie Rose got bored and came out, but that would just be mean. She went quietly through the house, listening for giggles. She wouldn't honestly have hidden under the table, would she have, right after telling Jeanette that it was the perfect hiding spot?

Well, this was a five-year-old girl.

She went into the kitchen and, sure enough, giggling floated up from under the table. "I wonder where Jeannie Rose went," Jeanette pondered aloud, theatrically pacing around the table. She finally stopped, bent down, and lifted up the corner of the tablecloth, revealing the little body underneath.

She swooped down and grabbed the little girl around the waist, hoisting her out from under the table and to her hip. Jeanette tickled her relentlessly for a moment, then finally rested the girl's head on her shoulder. "You're _right_, you _are_ good at that game!" she admitted, smiling into Jeannie Rose's curly hair. "Want to play again?"

"No," said Jeannie Rose. "I wanna wait until my Daddy gets home. Then we can play more games..." She held up her arms. "Put me down, please," she said. She smoothed out her skirt as soon as she was on the ground again, then looked up at Jeanette and opened her mouth to speak, but she did not have a chance.

Napier did not even bother knocking. He slammed the door open, angry. "Jeanette!" he called into the apartment, his voice thick. He moved into the apartment, slamming the door closed again, looking for her, making his weaving way from room to room. "Jeanette!" he demanded again. Finally he found her in the kitchen, and instantly he made his stumbling way directly across the room to Jeanette, not even noticing Jeannie Rose.

She looked up at him in slightly perplexed horror, her little face a confused frown. "Daddy?" she asked, worried, taking a few steps back. "Daddy, what are you doing?" Napier ignored her, moving towards Jeanette, angry and rancorous. Jeannie Rose ran over to him and wrapped her arms around his leg, preventing him from going any further. "Daddy, what's wrong?" she asked.

"Get off," Napier hissed, pushing her away, just forcefully enough to make her let go, but not enough to hurt the little girl. Jeannie Rose grasped fruitlessly at the air for a moment, trying to get hold of her daddy's leg again, but he had already moved away towards Jeanette. Jeannie Rose moved towards him again, pulling on his hand to stop him, but he wrenched his hand away from her grasp, continuing towards Jeanette.

"Daddy, _stop!_" Jeannie Rose said, clutching the edge of her dress in worry.

"Shut up," Napier said, not even considering what Jeannie Rose was saying. He came to stand right in front of Jeanette and took her face in his hand, pushing her mouth against his, kissing her forcefully, with no regard of whether she wanted to or not. He held her there, not letting her get away from his lustful grasp. "Don't talk," he panted, pausing a moment in his licentious kissing, "I don't want to hear it. Just shut up." He pushed their faces together again, more vehemently this time, and continued kissing her voraciously, like a starving animal. "Shut up," he said again, breathily, before going in to kiss her relentlessly again.

Napier pushed Jeanette up against the kitchen counter, trapping her, leaving her without an escape, then reached down to his slacks with the hand not holding her face to his and began to fumble with his button and zipper. He managed to unbutton the pants, then yanked down the zipper with a kind of mad forcefulness before moving on to his boxers. He straddled Jeanette against the counter as he clumsily groped with the buttons of the flap of his boxers, getting them one at a time, until he had managed to unbutton all of them, and he pulled his boxers open like his slacks.

"Don't say a word to me," he told Jeanette, reaching down for the edge of her outfit as he continued to kiss her voraciously, against her will. "I don't want to hear it. You're a home wrecker an' a whore, an' the least you can do is give me one last good fuck before I go."

"Daddy, what are you _doing?!_" Jeannie Rose screamed, pulling her dress up to cover her face. "_Stop it!_"

"Shut up, Jeannie Rose!" Napier said, aggravated. He started to yank Jeanette's skirt up her thigh. "You're gonna have to learn about this someday, might as well start now." He pulled the neck of Jeanette's shirt down and grazed his teeth along her collar-bone, continuing to pull up on her skirt. "Just shut up, all of you," he panted, dizzy from his sudden surge of blood. "I don't want to hear any more talk."

Something was wrong.

Whatever it was, Jeanette realized it the moment Napier walked in the door. She braced herself for some kind of explosion (had he been drinking? that must have been it, he was drinking), and when it didn't come, she opened her mouth to ask what was wrong.

And she found out quickly enough. She immediately tried to shove him away, but he was just too strong. She wrapped a hand around his upper arm, attempting to force him away from her, but nothing worked. She started panicking, and glanced at the drawer a foot away.

She wouldn't do it. She wouldn't do it, but Jeannie Rose was in trouble here, not just herself, and something was horribly, terribly wrong.

She groped her free hand over to the drawer next to the door, yanked it open, and grabbed her gun. Then she held it to Napier's chin.

"She is _five years old_," Jeanette said, voice low and teeming with barely concealed fury. "If you say another fucking _thing_, I will blow your goddamn _hand_ off." She cocked the gun, still trying to keep it out of Jeannie Rose's view. The corner of her lip curled up in a snarl, and her nails bit into his arm. "Now get _off_."

"What?" Napier demanded, staggering away from Jeanette, not even bothering to try to cover up. "You don' wanna sleep with me?" He scoffed. "What happened? Didja suddenly grow a conscience overnight?" He put a hand against the counter, steadying himself. "You suddenly decided it wasn't right fer you t' sleep with a married man – 'specially when his wife is still alive?!" He let go of the counter, standing up to his full, menacing height over her. "You knew she was alive, din' you?" he demanded. "_Didn't _you?! But you decided to stand aside and say nothin'."

He glared at Jeanette, his breathing heavy, and wavered slightly, putting a hand back on the counter to steady himself. "You tol' me Kitty wus'dead," Napier told Jeanette, glaring darkly at her. "You let me go on believin' that my wife wus'dead, so you could go ahead an' sleep with me." He looked down at his hands, clenching the edge of the counter, and shook his head. "You were never int'rested in helpin' me find Kitty," he told himself. He looked back up at her, frowning deeply. "You're jus' a _whore,_" he spat.

Napier looked away again, shaking his head. "I don' hafta put up with this... _deception_ anymore," he said. He glanced over his shoulder, then back at Jeanette. Then he let go of the counter, standing straight. "I'm gunna find Kitty on my own," Napier said, turning away from her. He bent down, grabbing Jeannie Rose, and lifted her into a sitting position in his arms. "An' I'm takin' my daughter with me."

"I don't wanna go with you, Daddy!" Jeannie Rose exclaimed, trying to squirm out of his arms. "You're not acting right! I wanna stay with Miss Jeanette, Daddy! I don't wanna go!"

"Hold still!" Napier exclaimed. "You're comin' with me, an' we're gunna find Kitty. We don' need Jeanette anymore." He glanced back at Jeanette angrily, holding tighter onto Jeannie Rose to keep her from squirming loose. "All she's ever done is lie to us."

"That's not true, Miss Jeanette is a good person!" Jeannie Rose retorted, twisting frantically to try to get him to put her down. Her efforts were useless, however, as she was so much smaller than he was. She turned to him, her face scrunched up in defiance. "I don't want to go with you!"

"Shut up!" Napier shouted back at her.

"Put me down!" Jeannie Rose screamed, pounding her little fists against Napier's shoulder. "You're not acting right, Daddy! Put me down!"

"SHUT UP!" Napier roared, grabbing her two small hands in his one much larger one. "Didn't I tell you to shut up?! SHUT UP!"

Jeannie Rose stared at him in horror for a long moment, and then her face contorted into a tearful grimace and she broke down into sobs. Napier watched her in surprise for a long moment, not quite sure what to do. Then his expression darkened. "Why're you crying?!" he shouted, his words slurring together. "Stop it! There's nothing worth crying about!" Jeannie Rose tried to stop crying, but she looked at him, took a few deep breaths, and then began crying harder than ever.

Napier's frowned darkened into an angry, animalistic scowl. "Stop crying!" he shouted over her. She shook her head, starting to try to squirm away from him again, but he tightened his grip on the little girl. "STOP FUCKING CRYING!" he roared at her. Jeannie Rose screamed in despondency and started trying to push herself out of his grasp. Napier tightened his grip on his daughter. "STOP FUCKING CRYING, YOU BRAT!" he snarled. Then, when she did not stop crying, Napier raised a hand and struck the little girl across the face.

Jeannie Rose instantly stopped crying, her little hand flying to her now stinging, flaming red cheek. She stared at her daddy in horror, as if she could not believe he had just done what he did. Her bottom lip began to tremble, but no tears came to her eyes. She was too shocked to cry. She just stared at Napier in disbelief.

Napier panted, staring at the little girl, then looked back at Jeanette. "You see?" he said. "I'm 'er Daddy. She listens t' me." He pointed at her, wetting his lips. "You're nothin'," he said roughly. "You're not 'er mommie... you're not _anything._" He shook his head. "An' you're never gonna see 'er again," he told her, his voice lower.

Jeanette had nothing left. She couldn't do anything to stop what was happening. Napier was too strong and too drunk, and she was just a nobody with a gun in her hand.

She glanced down at it. The gun felt very, _very_ tempting. All it would take was one shot, to either of them, and this entire miserable business would be fixed.

But Jeannie Rose...

She dropped it, murder in her eyes, and took a single step forward. She grabbed Jeannie Rose with a steely grip, refusing to let go, and finally resorted to kicking Napier's shin. His grip slipped for a moment, and Jeanette tucked Jeannie Rose's head into her shoulder.

"Out." Her voice was shaking, she was so angry. "Get out _now_. You're not her Daddy. You don't deserve to be. You're..." She took a deep, rattling breath. "Just get the fuck out, and don't come back. Go look for Kitty yourself. I told you...I _told_ you she was alive, and you never listened..."

She gasped into Jeannie Rose's hair, barely holding in tears. Whether they were angry or terrified, she couldn't tell. "Just get out," she demanded a final time.

Napier stared at her in shock, his mouth hanging slightly open, then closed it, glaring at her. "You…" he started to say, but then stopped. His eyes moved over to Jeannie Rose, who was clutching tightly to Jeanette's top, her face buried in Jeanette's shoulder, shaking and moaning quietly in fear. Napier's expression slowly began to change to one of surprise, even shock, as he stared at the little girl, and then back over at Jeanette, who seemed to be on the verge of angry – or even _scared,_ he told himself – tears. He took a step back. That was a blow. If anything, Jeanette was the_ last _person on Earth Napier would think could ever be frightened of him. But Jeannie Rose, as Jeanette had said, was only five years old, and he…

Napier took another unsteady step back, away from the two of them, staring at Jeanette in shock. "I…" He put a hand to his chest, his dark eyes straying as he tried to comprehend the situation as a whole. She was telling him to leave. He had breached an ultimatum with her, and she was telling him to get out of her house. This was not like the last time; the last time she had gotten upset with him for doing something she had considered unforgivable, she had offered for him to live with her again, with reservations. This time, there was no offer of forgiveness. This time, there was only the cold, stolid order: get out.

"I…" He stared at his daughter, feeling the stinging beginnings of tears forming at the corners of his eyes. He could not, would not cry in front of Jeanette. That would be putting too much power into her hands. He put his hand to his forehead, taking deep breaths, trying to steady himself. His emotions were much harder to keep in check when he had been drinking, and he could feel the horrid anguish of absolute truth welling up in his chest as he turned quickly away from Jeanette and Jeannie Rose, clenching his teeth. She was absolutely right, he told himself. He had no right calling himself Jeannie Rose's father.

Then again, he told himself, turning back towards the two of them, what did Jeanette know? She was not Jeannie Rose's mother – in fact, she was not related to Jeannie Rose in any way, unless her daddy fucking the woman made them, in some twisted way, connected. He frowned at Jeanette, his expression darkening as he thought about this. "I'munna find Kitty," he told her, almost threatening. "An' when I do, I'munna come back for my daughter. An' there's nothin' you can do about it when I come back, 'cause you're nothin' in her life." He glared at her, then his eyes moved back to Jeannie Rose, who was clinging tighter to Jeanette's neck. "You hear that, Jeann… Jeann…" He fumbled over his daughter's name, his tongue thick, and paused, trying to regain some semblance of his composure. "You hear that?" he asked.

Jeannie Rose shook her head, burying her face further into Jeanette's shoulder. "No," she moaned. "You're not my Daddy…"

Napier frowned, thrown off, surprised and worried. "Of course I'm your Daddy," he said, trying not to let the slight panic that was creeping up into his chest show in his voice. "I'm your Daddy… you know me."

"No…" Jeannie Rose clutched tightly to Jeanette, trying to make herself as small as possible against the woman's side. "I want my real Daddy," she said, tears starting to run down her face again.

Napier stared at Jeannie Rose for a long moment, then looked back up at Jeanette, all of his anger gone, replaced with grief. "But…" he said, the feeling of hopeless anguish beginning to rise back up into his chest. He took short, staggered breaths, putting a hand to his head, and turned away slightly. "I… I _am,_ I'm…" He looked back at his daughter, and a tear skated down his face. He quickly wiped it away, then turned back to Jeanette, angry once again. "Look what you've done!" he said, indicating towards Jeannie Rose. "Look! You've turned her against me – _her own father!_" He bared his teeth like an angry animal, looking between the two of them.

"Well, fine then!" he shouted. "Fuck you both!" He pointed at Jeanette, a snarl forming on his face. "I'munna find Kitty," he told her in a threatening voice, "an' when I do, I'munna get my daughter – and I'll never have to see you again!" And with that, he turned away, staggered back to the door of the apartment, wrenched it open, and left, slamming the door after him. Once he was outside, he paused a moment, his hand lingering on the door handle, and then fell back against the wall of the walkway and began to sob.

Jeanette was right. He did not deserve to be a father. Jeannie Rose deserved better than him. He might as well have been dead. At this thought, he looked up. He could end all their misery, Jeanette's misery, Jeannie Rose's misery, Kitty's misery… Jeanette was a better parent to Jeannie Rose than Napier could ever be, and with every twist and change of the story, Napier's chances of finding his wife grew slimmer. If he were to just kill himself, then he would not have to worry about any of that anymore… Jeanette would be happy, Jeannie Rose would be happy, and if Kitty did not remember him, as Gerald had said, then she would not care much either way.

Napier held out his arm, tracing his fingers across his wrist, his stained fingers sliding over a pronounced blue vein. He stared at it for a long moment, considering it. He had always been told that the right way to slit his wrists was across, rather than up-and-down. Then he frowned. Cutting was an amateur's sport, a joke in the world of crime; it was an easy ticket out of the jailhouse and into the madhouse. He wet his lips, the prospect of cutting himself becoming less and less appealing by the moment, then rolled his sleeve further up his arm and stared intently at the inside of the crook of his elbow.

Now, _there_ was an idea.

Instantly he rolled down his sleeve, mentally smacking himself for even thinking about something like that. Not only had he been drinking heavily, which would make the effects that much worse, but he had experimented with drugs before in his life, and the results had been disastrous. He glanced back towards Jeanette's apartment, wiping his tears away with the palm of his hand, and frowned. He had lost his wife and daughter once before because of his substance abuse, and now he was considering doing it again. He folded his arms, sitting in stolid, contemplative denial for a long moment. Then he glanced down at the inside of his elbow again.

Well, once more would not hurt. He was reformed, after all; he would not become addicted again. And if he died because of an overdose, all the better. Napier folded his arms again, then pushed himself up off of the wall and onto his feet, rather unsteadily. Then he started out of the apartment complex, heading towards the Narrows. That was the best place to get whatever he was trying to find… whatever that happened to be.

He guessed he would know when he got there.


	55. Chapter FiftyFour

"It's not..."

Jeanette gaped at the shut door, lost. "I didn't...it's not my fault," she said weakly. "I didn't..._do_ anything." Tears swam at the edge of her vision, then finally fell. She slumped to the floor, still awkwardly holding Jeannie Rose as she cried her heart out.

She _hadn't_ done anything. Maybe that was the problem. She had no right to keep two happily married individuals apart just because it created a better situation for herself. She should have made Jack understand and believe that Kitty was alive, and then found her and let them go on with their lives.

Instead, she had given up far too easily. Not to mention ruining a little girl's chance for happiness.

She had to redeem herself somehow. There had to be _something_ she could do. She sniffed, choking back her tears. It made no sense to cry. It was just...the shock. That was all. Anyone in her situation would have reacted the same way. She took a few deep breaths and wiped the tears away from her eyes. First things first. She had to get away from this apartment. She looked down at Jeannie Rose, clinging to her.

"Sweeheart, d...d'you have any clothes, or anything here...?" She cut herself off, then said bitterly, "No, you wouldn't, this isn't your house..." She rubbed her eyes again, then slowly got to her feet. She put out her hands, indicating for the girl to get back into her arms. "We need to leave. Okay? We need to leave _now_."

Jeannie Rose clung to Jeanette, letting her cry. It was all right for Jeanette to cry; Jeannie Rose, who had been so convinced that she would never be afraid, had been terrified of her daddy, and so it was only right that Jeanette should be allowed a good cry, too. Jeanette had stood up for Jeannie Rose, and Jeannie Rose owed her the world for that. She had been afraid of going with her daddy, afraid that he would to something that would get all of them hurt. Now that he was gone, it was all right for the two of them. He would come back in the morning, Jeannie Rose was sure... he would come back, and he would be all right, and they could all forget this whole thing ever happened.

Jeannie Rose looked up at Jeanette's question, then shook her head, sniffling. "I only got one thing," she said, playing with a small hole at the edge of her little pink dress. "But my mommie... she has stuff here. You got her lots of nice stuff... What Daddy didn't destroy when he got mad at me that one time." She bit her lip, then looked back up at Jeanette. "Why's Daddy mad this time?" she asked. "Is he just confused again?" She put a small hand to her cheek, which was still flaming pink from where she had been struck, and then wiped her eyes, trying to dry her tears. "I don't know why he's upset..." she said, her voice quiet. "I don't _think _I did anything wrong... I _tried _to be good..."

She sniffled, looking back up at Jeanette, and a tear rolled down each of her rosy cheeks as she climbed back into Jeanette's arms. "I was real scared of him, Miss Jeanette," she said, resting her head on Jeanette's shoulder and snuggling up to the woman, as if afraid to leave her side. Jeanette was her protection, the only person left that she could trust. "Thank you for sticking up for me... thank you for doing something." Then she looked up at Jeanette, her dark eyes concerned and confused. "We have to go now?" she asked. "But... how will Daddy find us if we leave again? If we... if we move?"

Jeannie Rose bit her lip. "If Daddy's just confused, then... he'll come back and everything will be okay again, right? But then..." She began to fidget with the hole in her skirt again, unhappy and concerned. "If he can't find us... then we'll never see him again." She looked back up at Jeanette. "Daddy's a good person," she said, frowning slightly. "He's just... he makes mistakes sometimes. But I know he really loves me... and I know he really cares about you, too, Miss Jeanette." She rested her head on Jeanette's shoulder, tired out from the stress of the evening. "And what if he finds my mommie?" she asked. "If he finds my mommie... how will he find _us?_"

"It doesn't matter," Jeanette told Jeannie Rose, in response to the girl's worries about her mother's clothing. "When we find her, I can always get her new clothes." She found herself getting frustrated with the little girl, which wasn't fair. It wasn't _her_ fault that Jeanette had gotten into this situation. Besides, she was too innocent to know what this all meant.

Jeanette took a deep breath before answering slowly and carefully, "Sweetie, your father needs to get his act together. He doesn't understand what he can and can't do. You can _not_ see him, and we're going to get you to your mommy. Then you two can go away and be happy somewhere else, I'll make sure of it." She moved into the guest bedroom, still holding Jeannie Rose; the girl had become a sort of safety blanket for her, something that kept the worries of life away for at least a little while. "I'm so sorry things turned out this way," she apologized gently, setting the girl down on the bed and beginning to pack up her things.

She still had one safety spot set up, a hotel that (with a rather large bribe) had kept a room open for her for the past few weeks. With the way things were going, she first ought to find a few more places to run to in case of emergency. She threw her laptop into her duffel bag last of all, checking to make sure she'd picked everything up. With a nod, she turned to Jeannie Rose.

"You ready, sweetie?"

"And me?" Jeannie Rose asked, looking up. "Can we get some new clothes for me, Miss Jeanette?" She began to fool with the hole in the edge of her dress. "You an' Mommie… you went out an' got all these nice clothes, and I love Mommie, so I'm glad she got some nice stuff…" She bit her lip, hesitant to ask it. Miss Jeanette had done so much for her, she almost felt bad asking for more. "Can we maybe get me a new dress?" she asked. "I only need one… I don't really need a lot of stuff…" She paused a moment, looking down at her little shoes.

"We never really had a lot, when we were living in the hospital," she told Jeanette. "An' when we moved out, we only had what they gave us. Mommie didn't even have a chance to look for a job before…" Her voice trailed off, and she looked back up at Jeanette. "I think Mommie could make Daddy better," she said, sounding determined. "I think all Daddy needs is someone to love him…" She looked back up at Jeanette. "Do you love my Daddy, Miss Jeanette?" she asked, suddenly interested. She took a breath. "You said you did, that one time you two were doing all that kissing and stuff… after you'd been trying on clothes."

Jeannie Rose was set down on the bed, and she watched Jeanette packing up what few things she considered to be really important with interest, fiddling with one of her socks. Then she shook her head. "It's not your fault," she assured Jeanette with a smile. "All you ever did was help." As soon as Jeanette finished packing, Jeannie Rose hopped off the bed and caught hold of her free hand, looking up at her with a dimpled smile. "I'm ready to go, Miss Jeanette," she said. "We're going to find my mommie, right?"

As they started out the door, Jeannie Rose took one last look back at the apartment, and then let go of Jeanette's hand, running back into the living-room. "Wait," she called to Jeanette, "I just wanna make sure I didn't leave anything." She looked under the coffee-table, then under the couch, frowning slightly. She had not brought anything, herself, but if her mother had brought anything, she did not want to be forgetting it. Jeannie Rose turned over one of the cushions on the couch, and her smile faded a bit when she saw the blood-stain on the pillow.

Jeannie Rose paused a moment, then looked over at Jeanette in confusion. Then she turned the cushion back around and ran back to Jeanette's side, holding onto her hand again, clinging to her. "There was nothing there," she reported, holding onto Jeanette's hand with both of hers. She was silent for a moment as they started for the door again. Then she asked, "Miss Jeanette… is Daddy a bad man?" She looked up at Jeanette, her expression frank. "Does he do bad things?" she asked. She paused again, then looked away. "I've been wondering for a while," she admitted.

Jeanette looked up, still somewhat distracted by thoughts of their new living arrangements. They really ought to move around this time, make themselves harder to find. She felt dirty, somehow, taking a leaf out of Crane's book like this, but...she shook her head, dispelling the thoughts. "Of course," she said, surprised by Jeannie Rose's question. She realized, guiltily, that she hadn't even thought about getting the girl new clothing. She'd probably just been too caught up in _other things_. Her mouth tightened.

She drew back, affronted by the girl's question. _Love_ Jack? Not in this lifetime. She might have thought it once, but she was disillusioned by now. She didn't love anyone. It never led to anything good. "No," she replied, bending over to grab her bag and hide her cloudy expression. "I was just being silly."

Again, the feelings of guilt returned when Jeannie Rose assured Jeanette that she'd just been trying to help the whole time. No, she hadn't, and she damn well knew it. But what could she say? "Yes, I helped; helped ruin your life." The girl wouldn't understand it. Jeanette simply opened the door and beckoned to Jeannie Rose, ignoring the first question. For the second, she thought for a moment before answering very carefully, "Yes, Jeannie Rose. He's done bad things."

She smiled down at the girl. "But that's all over now, okay? Let's go find your mommy."

. . .

"Mmhmm, tha's a good'un, tha's a _reeeeal_ good...better'n the lass' one..." Flicker's half-coherent musings were accompanied with a lazy grin. "Shiiiit, that stuff works good." She stumbled forward a half-step out of the alley she'd been hiding in, holding up her fingers to make a small rectangle, framing the fire in front of her. It had blown out the windows of the small home she'd sneaked into, leaving trails of logger's dynamite she'd nicked from a nearby convenience store.

And damn, did they do a good job. Just like the LSD she'd bought off some dealer on the street for _way_ fucking more than it was worth, in her expert opinion. The stuff had been good, but not _that_ good. And now her head spun and fingers twitched pleasantly, burning energy through her veins almost as much as the sight of the raging fire did.

The sirens of police cars rang not-so-faintly in her ears, signaling their arrival. She giggled. Let 'em come. Let 'em all come, and see the nice work she'd done tonight. Four fires arranged artistically in a square around the city; one of them was the convenience store she'd robbed, and the other three were residential places like this one. And at all four, she'd left her brand-new signature, an ornate "F" scribbled on the pavement in red spray paint.

She stepped back into the alley as three cruisers pulled into sight and screeched to a stop in front of the house. A fire engine wailed in the distance; most of the family was already out, sprawled on the grass and coughing up smoke. The officers checked them as Flick watched from nearby, grinning like an idiot. Finally, one turned and inspected the area.

He spotted her.

"What're you smiling at?" he asked, scowling fiercely and walking up to her. She moved away from the wall she'd been leaning against, still cheerful. "Did you see what happened?"

"Sure did, off'," she replied, still cheerful and ever-compliant. "Some psycho...maybe five feet seven, real crazy-like hair, she was pretty damn cute...I mean, if I was _into_ that..." She mused to herself for a few moments. "Anyhow. Lit 'em up nice and bright. Went up real easy, that one did." She giggled at her wit, until the officer grabbed her arm. Her easy smile turned into a dark frown instantly. "Wha'the fuck _you_ want? I'll beat yer fuckin' head..."

Then she noticed what he had, and winced. The tattoo on her upper arm, displayed to the world by her tank top, was the same as the letter she'd left on the pavement near the house. The officer immediately shouted back to his fellows, "Think I found the arsonist."

Flick struggled to get away, lashing out at his knees and was quickly rewarded with a yelp of pain. The man released her arm, and she scampered off towards the other end of the alley until another pair of strong hands grabbed her from behind. She turned and her fist flew at the two officers behind her; the punch missed. She was hauled back kicking and shrieking to the sidewalk of the burning house. Fire trucks had shown up during the scuffle; men hurried around, connecting hoses to hydrants and spraying the house down. Flick looked on in disbelieving anger as her work was destroyed.

"She's got a tat the same as the mark there," the cop nearby was explaining, rubbing his knees with a pained expression on his face, "and she was talking about some chick who'd lit it. I think she's drugged up." He waved out of focus for a moment. When she could see clearly next, she was being half-held up by a cop with a disgusted look on his face.

"M not...Drugged up," she slurred, mouth not working as well as it should have. "S'm fuckin' LSD...awful shit anyways. Didn' work..." Her hands were wrestled behind her back. "What, you gonna take me in? Fuckin'...No fuckin' way," she snarled, temper flaring. She lashed out again, then something was pressed to her side and a shock ripped through her body.

She gasped with pain and her legs buckled beneath her, until someone hauled her up and shoved her into the back seat of a car. The door slammed before she could say another word, and the car moved off towards the police station.

. . .

Maggie watched Thomas make his unsteady way out of the Iceberg, then picked up his glass with a sigh. She hated to see regulars that came in just to drink too much. It saddened her, and, when she could get away with it, she usually did not let her patrons do that to themselves. If they wanted to go to a different bar and destroy their livers, or feed their unhealthy addiction, she could not stop them, but she did not have to let them do it under her watch. She hated feeling responsible for anything anyone did as a result of something she had done, or had allowed them to do. So far, she had not heard of anyone passing out in a gutter and dying while she was tending the bar, and it was a record she was hoping to keep.

Maggie checked the clock up on the wall, and a slight frown came to her face. It was a few minutes before nine o' clock, when the woman Thomas had mentioned he had been supposed to meet up with was going to arrive. Maggie sighed, picking up Thomas' dirty glass and starting to clean it, and moved away towards some of the other, less attention-seeking patrons at the end of the bar.

Grace sat down at the bar, leaning on her elbows as she watched Maggie going about her tasks, and heaved a sigh. "Margaret," she said, tapping on the bar with one of her fingernails. Maggie looked up, a bit surprised at being addressed. "Maggie, dear, I'd like to ask you something, if you're not too busy," Grace said, indicating for Maggie to come over.

Maggie crossed to Grace, bringing over a glass and her cleaning-cloth. "Yes?" she asked.

Grace leaned forward towards her, her little smile twisted up like she knew a secret and was dying to spill it. "Maggie," she said in a low voice, "I have a question to ask you… it might be a bit personal." Her gossipy little smile widened. "Maggie, darling," she said, "what exactly is your relationship with Ozzie?"

Maggie stared at her, taken aback. "I… never really think about it much," she answered. She looked down at the glass she was cleaning and shrugged. "Os… he and I, we get along, but… he's always so…" She sighed, looking back up at Grace. "Gracie," she said, "you know him better than anyone. You even know him better than I do." She took a deep breath, considering how to word her question. "Is there any chance that he might even be _remotely_ interested in me?" she asked, hopeful.

Grace stared at her, thoughtful, and tapped a finger against her chin. "Well, Maggie," she said, "that's a tough question. Ozzie's a man of infinite mystery, as you know… as well as a man of infinite fashion."

Maggie raised her eyebrows. "I noticed," she said in an undertone.

"Well, here's an idea, Magpie," Grace said, smiling at her. "Why don't you ask him yourself?"

Maggie stared at her, looking somewhat terrified at the suggestion. "What?" she asked.

"Yes!" Grace agreed with herself, flipping back her hair. "There's no better way to find out than to go straight to the source… providing the source is straight." She laughed heartily, clapping her hands at her pun. "Oh, I kill myself sometimes," she said, letting out a heavy sigh of amusement. Then she looked back at Maggie. "I really think you should, Maggie, dearest," she said, reaching out and putting a hand on Maggie's arm. "You never know, dear… he might be waiting for you to make the first move." Her smile widened. "All I can say is that the two of you would make adorable children," she said, raising her eyebrows.

"I… hadn't even thought about children," Maggie admitted.

"Oh, they'd be so lovely, with their chubby rosy cheeks and their strawberry-blonde hair!" Grace said, her voice dreamy and excited. "Maggie, you simply must ask Ozzie about that. As little as either of us would like to admit it, your biological clock is ticking." Grace looked away with a sigh. "I wish Terry and I could've had children," she said, sounding somewhat sad. "But ah, well."

Maggie looked away for a moment, then looked back at Grace, hoping to change the subject. The thought of having children with Os – or the chance of never doing so – was getting to her, and she did not want to think about it. "Where is Arnold?" she asked.

"Oh, Arnie's asleep," said Grace. "We got a hotel room, two twin beds. We're splitting the cost, and he's such a dear that I trust him not to try to pull anything. And if he _does,_ my dear…" She grinned at Maggie. "I'll break his little puppet so fast he won't see it coming." She paused a moment, thinking. "I might even threaten to do something to that marionette of his," she added thoughtfully. "But only if he's very bad."

Maggie raised her eyebrows, then went back to cleaning the glass, looking towards the entrance of the Iceberg. It was nine o' clock, and she was expecting whoever it was that was supposed to be meeting up with Thomas to come through the door at any moment. She pondered how she would word the situation to the poor woman. He got caught up, she would say. He had… other matters to attend to, that interfered with him meeting up with her at the scheduled time. He was unavailable, she would say. Or, she decided, she could tell the truth. She just hoped that the woman, whoever she was, would not go on a drink-ordering spree like the man she had been supposed to meet up with and the eccentric fellow he had been interviewing.

For Maria, it had been a long day of waiting and watching. She had not yet gotten a call from Gordon saying that they'd caught Crane; for now, she'd just have to give him the benefit of the doubt. No leads had been made on the Joker case, either. Needless to say, Maria was not in the best of moods when she arrived at the Lounge promptly in time for her meeting with Hale.

She plastered a smile on her face for now. Nothing particularly _bad_ had happened, either, she reminded herself with a bitter grin. Her house hadn't, say, spontaneously gone up in flames, and she hadn't been mugged on the streets. A relatively good day for an active Gothamite. She made her way to the bar, figuring that Hale wasn't the type to grab dinner for just a casual chat, and sat down at a bar stool.

"Hey, could I get an iced tea?" she asked the woman behind the bar, setting her purse on the counter in front of her for a moment to check her cell phone for messages. Nothing. "With lemon."

Maggie was surprised for a moment, but she soon shook off her surprise and started mixing together this woman's drink. It was not often that someone came in asking for something non-alcoholic, but perhaps this woman had something on her mind that she did not want to drown with alcohol. It was refreshing for Maggie to be able to put a drink in front of a patron without having to worry about how they were going to get home. She set the drink down in front of Maria, then leaned on the counter, considering her. "Waiting for someone, dear?" she asked. She glanced over towards the other end of the bar to make sure she was not wanted, then turned back to Maria.

"You know, I don't think I've seen you around these parts before," Maggie said, genial. She offered Maria an amiable smile. "What business brings you here, stranger?" She chuckled lightly, picking up a glass, and started to clean it. "I'm just joking," she said, shrugging. "I'm sorry if I seem very forward, but… it's not very often that I get to talk to someone who seems…" She glanced back over towards her other patrons, who seemed to be pretty far gone in whatever they were drinking, then back at Maria. "…Sensible," she finished her sentence.

Maggie smiled at Maria and went back to cleaning the glass she had picked up. "Anyways," she said, "tonight's been a lot more exciting than usual… things have died down a bit, but you should have been here just a few minutes ago." She set down the now-clean glass. "You'd never believe who was here," she said. "You know that Joker fellow, that everyone's talking about? The murderer? Well, he was here, looking normal as any other guy you'd meet on the street." She leaned forward towards Maria again. "He was sitting in the bar stool right next to the one you're sitting in, big as life. And he's a big guy, too, wouldn't you know it. Tall, brawny. Scary guy."

Then she paused, thinking. "You know," she said. "There was someone here interviewing him as well." She scoffed. "The two of them sure knocked back some drinks," she said, her tone slightly disapproving. "I wasn't sure if they'd be able to get home okay. I mean, both of them got real…" She made a motion with her hand to indicate intoxication, then shrugged. "They're both gone now," she said. "The one who was interviewing him, though… I think he called him Thomas." She picked up her rag and started to slowly clean the counter. Then a slight frown creased her face. "He was supposed to meet someone afterwards… Thomas was," she said. "He told me to tell them he… got busy, or something." She glanced towards the door of the Lounge. "Though I'm not sure how I'll know her when I see her," she said with a sigh.

Then she smiled at Maria again. "Ah, but all that is someone else's business," she said, waving it off. "I try not to get involved in my patrons' lives… it's none of my business, unless they tell me about it." She set the cloth down, looking off into the Lounge. "Though I'll never understand some of my patrons," she admitted. She turned back to Maria. "One of my patrons," she said, glancing over her shoulder to make sure she was not being listened in on my anyone but Maria, "she's in love with someone she knows she can't have. See, he's married, but…" She paused again, then said, "Well, she's in love with the Joker. How bizarre is that, right? I mean, he doesn't seem the type for people to fall in love with – much less to be married."

She let out a breath, then went on, "But anyways, I'm just talking your ear off over here… silly me." She picked up the cloth again and began to clean the bar top in lazy circles. "It's really not any of my business to be talking about other people while they're not here, but…" She sighed, looking back up at Maria with a smile. "You seem like a good person to talk to," she said. She shrugged, going back to cleaning the counter-top. "Thanks for hearing me out," she said. "Your drink is on the house."

Maria hadn't expected such a kind reception at a place like this; the rumors she'd heard about the Lounge hadn't exactly painted a warm picture. But this woman, whoever she was, made Maria feel at home, and that was enough to win her over instantly.

It was Maggie's words, though, that set off her instinct. So the big, bad Joker had been here. Maria cursed her luck; had she shown up even a bit earlier, she would have had him finally. But of course she hadn't. Maybe the woman would know where he'd gone.

Maria had just gotten it into her head to ask when she realized what Maggie had just said. "Thomas?" she repeated dumbly. "Thomas was...interviewing him?" She paused for a moment to breath. This woman must be mistaken. Thomas was on _her_ side; he'd seen the corruption and crime in this city, and wanted to get rid of it. Surely he wasn't one of those people who would do anything for a big, fat paycheck at the end of the day.

So she asked, quickly donning a cool, nonchalant mask, "This Thomas guy...he wasn't that famous reporter from the Times, was he?" She laughed lightly, her feigned calm tone betrayed by her hand holding her glass. Her grip was so tight that her knuckles were turning white; the glass quivered in her hand. "Odd to think that somebody like him would be on speaking terms with...the Joker."

Maggie looked up at Maria's question, staring at the writer in surprise. "Well… he was here," she said. "And then the Joker just… came in and sat down beside him." She paused a moment. "I think," she said. "I don't know all the details, since I didn't come in until later… Tally was the bartender at the time." She raised her eyebrows, heaving a sigh. "I'd tell you to ask him about it, but…" she shrugged, looking back at Maria. "He isn't too fond of speaking," she said, making every word count.

She leaned forward on the counter towards Maria. "But from what I could gather," she said, "Thomas was just an innocent bystander, and the Joker was the talky one. You know how some people are… really outgoing. He was one of those people." She glanced over her shoulder at her other patrons to see if anyone needed assistance, but when she saw that no one did, she turned back to Maria. "But once he started knocking back some drinks, he got real chatty… real friendly. He told the story of how he got those scars."

Maggie indicated her face, in case Maria did not remember which scars she was referring to. "Did you ever hear his story?" she asked. "It's so sad… It seems he and his wife were poor, living in a run-down apartment, and she took an extra shift at work… and when he went to go pick her up, they were roughed up by some thugs and separated… and he never saw her again after that." She paused a moment, picking up a glass and starting to clean it. "Which is odd," she mused, looking away.

She looked back at Maria, looking somewhat confused. "Kitty… his wife, that is… she came in here just a few days ago, alive as anything," she said. She looked at Maria. "She was with some guy, and she didn't look too happy about it… he was… hmm…" She paused, thinking about it for a moment. "He was a small guy," she said, cleaning the glass thoughtfully. "Brown hair, blue eyes. He wore glasses… seemed like an unpleasant sort of individual." She grimaced slightly. "I wouldn't have expected Kitty to be with someone like him," she said. "But… you never know, in a place like Gotham."

Then she looked up at Maria in interest. "Thomas… Hale, I think his name is," she answered, nodding. "Yes, he's the one who writes for the paper…" She paused a moment, then raised her eyebrows in surprised recognition. "You're the one he was waiting for!" she exclaimed, setting down the glass. "I am so sorry, Miss, I… I didn't even know." She set down the cloth and wrung her hands. "Thomas… he…" She hesitated, and then let out a breath. "Well, I've already told you where he's gone, haven't I?" she asked.

Maggie frowned, picking up her cloth again. "Me and my big mouth," she mumbled.

Maria eyed her glass, not meeting Maggie's eyes. Whatever the woman said, maybe questioning this Tally fellow was the right way to go. There were always ways of encouraging (the edge of her mouth twitched, ready to grin) people to talk.

She bit back a snarl, and simply scowled fiercely at Maggie's rendition of the Joker's story. It didn't match hers. Well, go figure, she scolded herself, sipping her tea before suddenly losing all desire to drink it. She shoved the glass away. Of _course_ he wouldn't tell the truth, especially to some no-name stranger like herself. She couldn't help but feel a faint sense of betrayal; the one thing she'd thought they had shared, the one connection she had to the man, had just been a lie.

But she was, once again, distracted. Her eyes zipped up to Maggie's, holding them with a sharp intensity. "Jonathan Crane," she said quite frankly. "His name was Jonathan Crane, that escaped ex-head of Arkham. He _kidnapped_ her a while back." She stressed the word, anger building. Was she forever destined to be a step behind those two, ghosting their shadows? It just wasn't _fair_.

She brushed aside Maggie's own realization, focusing instead on the information she'd gathered; she'd have to let Gordon know about Napier, even if the Crane sighting was useless now that he'd surely been caught. In a distracted tone, she asked, "You didn't happen to see where either of these...gentlemen," her voice nearly stuck on the word, "went, did you? This is important." She considered sharing her connection with the Gotham police force with the woman, but opted against it. No need to flaunt that sort of thing in a shady place like this.

Maggie frowned, still feeling somewhat ashamed of herself for spilling everything she had been told not to say, and stared at Maria, still cleaning her glass. "Kidnapped?" she asked. She looked away. "That's a strong word," she said.

"And accurate," Maria said frankly. "I swear, he _kidnapped_ her." She placed special emphasis on the word, and then nearly went on to elaborate on what exactly had been happening over the past several weeks, then stopped short.

Maggie shook her head. "I don't know why you'd think she was kidnapped, but… she sure didn't look happy." Then she looked back at Maria. "The old director at Arkham? Arkham Asylum?" she asked. She raised her eyebrows. "I knew someone who worked there," she said. "I don't remember their name… I just remember them showing me the place one day. It gave me the creeps."

Maggie shuddered slightly, thinking about it, then shook her head. "Anyways," she said, turning back to Maria, "that's neither here nor there." She looked down at Maria's drink, slightly concerned. "Aren't you going to drink that?" she asked, trying not to sound too hopeful. It was usually a sign that the customer did not like her, as a person, when they refused to finish their drink, or they gave some kind of explanation… she hoped that Maria was one of the ones who had some kind of reason not to finish her drink. She would hate to have scared off one of the only sensible people to inhabit the Iceberg with her mindless chatter.

"I'm sorry if I said something," she said quickly, hoping to remedy whatever it was she had done.

It didn't matter what she told this woman. She was probably just a shameless gossiper. She liked to see the happy, interesting bits of life that fell in place with her opinions and preferences. Maria sighed and dutifully downed the rest of her tea, if only to make Maggie happy. When she leaned back once more, she gathered her purse from the seat next to her and got ready to leave. "No, no, I just..." She stalled, then plowed on once more. "I remembered something I was going to do tonight."

Maggie took a breath, then smiled at Maria. "Thomas… I have no idea where he went," she said, shrugging. "He didn't tell me. But the other one… the Joker…" She stopped cleaning the glass, setting it down on the counter. "He was staying with a lady-friend of his, last I heard. If you're lucky, Os might still have her address… though I think he might have given it to the Joker a few days ago when he came in here, bleeding like you wouldn't believe…" She looked up at Maria in sudden interest. "You should've seen it," she said in a low voice. "It was awful… it looked like he'd been sliced open by a machete, or something."

She shook her head, picking up her cloth and starting to clean the counter-top. "It's really none of my business," she said with a sigh. Then she leaned forward on the counter towards Maria. "The Joker's been seeing a client of Os'," she said in a low voice. "You know… on the down-low. She says he's still married, but it's obvious when you look at them that they've…" She raised her shoulders, smiling knowingly at Maria. "_You know,_" she said. "Seen a little more of each other than just _with their clothes on._" She glanced over her shoulder, making sure she was not being listened in on, then turned back to Maria.

"I never get to gossip, much," she said. "That's usually not my thing… but it's fun to do it every once in a while." She smiled at Maria. "I bet you just love some juicy gossip, too, don't you?" she asked. She chuckled. "You seem the type… the girl who looks at all the magazines in the check-out lanes at the local supermarket." She leaned back, away from Maria, and started to clean the counter again. "Don't worry," she said. "I'm that girl, too."

Maria stood and pulled some paper and a pencil out of her bag. "Listen, if you could have...Os, was it? If he could give me that address sometime, if you guys still have it..." She flashed a politician's smile, polite but distracted. She had to start keeping track of all this; maybe it was time to start a case file on her laptop at home. "And anything else you hear. It would be _really_ appreciated." As she spoke, she wrote her hotel room's number on a slip of paper and then pushed it across the counter. When she was finished, she set out without another word, eager to continue working on this case.


	56. Chapter FiftyFive

Wayne removed his bat cowl and set it on its display stand, frowning, and then started to take off his Bat suit. He had never needed help before on any of his missions, and it irritated him that some complete stranger had decided to interfere with his nightly justice-doing. What irritated him more, however, was that he had actually needed her help. And that was the worst part – the person who had helped him out had been female. It was not that Wayne had a problem with women; he was head-over-heels for Rachel Dawes and felt that women, if given the opportunity, could rule the world. It was that he, the caped vigilante, the lone crusader, had to be saved... by a _girl._

"Back already, Master Wayne?" Alfred asked, walking up behind Wayne, the man's pyjamas folded over his arm as he patiently watched Wayne changing out of his Bat suit. "Nothing majorly catastrophic happening, I take it? No mass murders or... cyber terrorism?"

"I wouldn't know about _cyber terrorism, _Alfred," said Wayne, hanging up his chest armour. "That's Fox's department." He sighed as he started to take apart his gauntlets and put them into their proper places. "When did you say Jessica's funeral was, by the way?" he asked, closing the compact silver cases that enclosed the Bat gauntlets.

"Tomorrow," said Alfred. "Mister Fox wanted to get the first funeral time he could, seeing as there's been so many deaths lately... he's lucky to have gotten one at all, if I do say so, myself, Sir." Alfred paused a moment, then commented, "You seem upset, Master Wayne. Is everything all right?"

Wayne glanced back at him as he slipped out of the leg-armour and placed it in the display with the rest of the suit. "Yeah," he said, with false enthusiasm. "I'm just fine."

"Begging your pardon for saying so, Sir," said Alfred with the hint of a smile, "but if you're just peachy, then I'm sixteen and sexy."

Wayne grinned and looked back at Alfred. "You do have a way with words, Alfred," he said with a slight chuckle.

"I do try, Sir," said Alfred, smiling back at him.

Wayne sighed and closed the display, taking his pyjamas from Alfred and slipping into them. "There was a girl, Alfred," he said. "Tonight."

"Ah," said Alfred. "There usually is. Miss Dawes, again, Sir?"

"No, no, I don't mean at the restaurant... though I did run into some interesting characters there, too," said Wayne, his brow furrowing slightly. "No, I mean tonight, when I was out being Batman... there was this _girl._" He raised his eyebrows. "She was all dressed up, like me, except... not like a bat. She was, uh..." He tried to think of how to describe her. "Well, she was dressed in all black," he said. Then she shook his head. "You know what I'm saying," he said, giving up.

"A dominatrix, Sir?" asked Alfred jokingly. "My word. I always knew you had odd tastes, but I would never have suspected something like that."

"Okay, stop it," said Wayne with a chuckle. "It wasn't like that." He looked away, thinking, and paused a moment. "She saved my life," he said.

"Did she, now?" asked Alfred, sounding intrigued. Wayne nodded, looking back at Alfred. Then he started towards the exit of the Bat cave, Alfred following in his stead. "Did you happen to get her number, Master Wayne?" Alfred asked as they boarded the makeshift elevator.

"I'm sure you'd like to know it, Alfred," joked Wayne as the elevator started to go up.

"Oh, no, Sir," said Alfred with a smile. He looked away from Wayne as the lights began going out in the Bat cave and the elevator reached the top of its ascent. "Though if she had an older brother, it might be a different story."

. . .

Napier sat down heavily at the bar. The throbbing lights and loud music of the casino were doing nothing for his hazy condition. All he really wanted right now was to drink himself into some kind of oblivion, where he would not have to think about everything that had happened to him. If he drank enough, he would not have to think about Jeanette, or Kitty, or the look on Jeannie Rose's face when he had struck her... He still could not get the thought out of his head. She had looked at him the same way that one girl he had tried to take advantage of had looked at him...

As if he was a monster.

Napier held up a hand, calling over the hefty barmaid, and she came to stand in front of him, one meaty hand on her full hip. "What can I get you, Señor?" she rasped.

Napier did not even think twice about her smoker's voice. "Somethin' strong," he answered, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

Rosa nodded, then pulled up a shot glass, placed it in front of him, and filled it for him. "Drink up, Señor," she told him. Then she turned and walked away towards the other patrons.

Napier picked up the shot and hesitated, staring at it. Then he downed it. It was bitter and strong, just what he needed. He set the shot glass back down on the counter with a deep exhale, then turned to look at the person sitting a few seats down from him. It was a little Mexican man, barely five feet tall, with a fringed black moustache and beard and a shock of black hair on his head. He stared at Napier with keen, beady eyes, his hands fidgeting on the bar counter in front of him.

"You want something?" the Mexican asked.

Napier looked up at him, raising his eyebrows. "That depends," he replied, trying to focus on the little tanned man in front of him. "What've you got?"

The Mexican shrugged. "What you lookin' for, _ese?_" he asked. "I got everything. I got your coke, your speed, your LSD…" He began ticking them off on his fingers. Then he looked back up at Napier. "I got some smack, too, if you want it."

"Smack?" asked Napier, frowning. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing if anyone was listening in on their conversation, then turned back to the little man. "Isn't that… you know… really illegal?"

The Mexican frowned at him, sceptical. "Tell me you're joking," he answered, monotone. He spread out his arms, indicating the casino as a whole. "Look around you, _ese,_" he said, staring hard at Napier. "Do you really think anyone's gonna care here?"

Napier looked around the casino. The man was making a very valid point, he had to admit. It was an illegal casino in the Narrows, owned by the city's biggest crime boss. Buying and selling drugs was probably the most legal thing that went on there. He turned back to the little Mexican man and nodded. "Okay," he said. "I'll take some."

The Mexican looked at him, slightly concerned. "You sure you wanna start with smack, _ese?_" he asked. "It's some heavy shit, man. Some people who try it… they don't never get better." He reached into his pocket, pulling out a handful of small packets and spreading them out. "If I were you, I'd start with something a little less powerful, like weed, man… or even coke." He pushed a small baggie full of white powder towards Napier.

"That's okay, I think I can handle it," said Napier, pushing the baggie of cocaine back towards the Mexican.

The Mexican looked up at him for a long moment. Then he let out a heavy sigh of worry and pocketed the packets. "Okay, _ese,_" he said, taking out a tiny plastic baggie full of dirty-yellow powder. "But if it fucks you up real bad, don't come to me. This shit ain't cut, man."

"I'm going to hold you to that," Napier said, picking up the baggie and inspecting it. He flicked it once, watching the powder settle back towards the bottom of the baggie. "'Cause I'll know if it was." He set the baggie back down on the bar counter and looked back up at the Mexican. "How much?" he asked.

"Five hundred," answered the Mexican simply.

"Five…?" Napier scoffed. "You're shittin' me. Five C's for this?" He lifted the baggie, showing it to the Mexican with a sceptical expression. "Back when I used to deal, this was one C, at most. Fifty, usually."

"Times are tough, man," the Mexican argued, getting defensive. "I gotta make a living, here, _ese. _My wife, she makes minimum wage." He pointed towards Rosa, who was sullenly mixing up a customer's drink. "We're illegal, man. We ain't even s'posed to be here. An' if we can't pay the rent, we'll be deported."

Napier stared at Rosa for a long moment, then looked back at the little man who sat before him. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Julio," the Mexican replied. "Julio Hernandez."

Napier nodded, then leaned forward towards Julio. "Well, Julio Hernandez," he said, lowering his voice so that Julio had to lean forward to hear him. "How about I make you a deal? You work for me... do my bidding... and I'll let you live. And I'll split the profits with you."

Julio considered his offer for a moment. "How much percentage are we talkin' here, man?" he asked.

Napier considered it for a moment, then answered, "Ten percent."

"Ten percent?" Julio leaned away from him. "What, do I look stupid or something?" He crossed his arms, staring at Napier. Then he said, "Make it ten with interest and I'm sold."

"Good man," said Napier, reaching out a hand and clapping him on the shoulder. Then he picked up the packet of heroin and shook it. "And, of course, I'll be getting these for free from now on."

"What? Hey, man," Julio frowned at Napier, "that's not cool. I still gotta make a living,_ ese._ I can't count on you to do everything, man... I mean, everyone has off days, right?"

"Oh, sure, everyone has off days," said Napier, pocketing the packet of heroin. "And when I come across one, I'll probably be dead. Then you'll be free to sell your drugs to support yourself and your wife." He folded his hands in front of him on the bar counter. "But until then," he said, leaning towards Julio again, "I will provide you all you need and more. Just trust me on this one."

Napier was not sure that his promise would be good; the little Mexican man was sharp, all right, but Napier was a smooth talker, and he could see that he was winning over this Julio Hernandez. As long as he kept saying all the right things, he could get away with anything. He grinned at Julio, eyeing the pocket that Julio had put the packets of cocaine back into, and then his dark eyes returned to Julio's face. One thing at a time, he told himself. At the moment, all he cared about was getting the heroin and not having to pay for it. Perhaps he would even pay Julio back for it someday.

Julio raised his eyebrows, still looking unsure and slightly put off. "If you say so, _ese,_" he said, turning away from Napier. "I'm gonna trust you on this one, man. But don't try to pull this shit on me no more, a'ight? 'Cause I'm _loco,_ man."

"Funny story," said Napier with a bitter chuckle, picking up his shot glass. "I'm a little loco, myself."

"Hey, man, don't mock me," said Julio, turning back to look at Napier. "You don't know where I been, _ese._"

Napier finished his shot, then turned slowly to look at Julio. A sarcastic, boozy grin crept up his face as he stared at the little man. "Me, neither," he answered. Napier turned back towards Rosa and raised his shot glass for her to see it. "Here," he called her over.

Julio watched Napier, raising his eyebrows. "Hey, man," he said as Rosa came over and filled his shot glass again, "you know you shouldn't take that shit after you been drinkin', right? 'Cause that shit'll fuck you up, man. It'll give you, like... internal organ failure or somethin'."

"Thank you, _Doctor Mexican,_" Napier said, somewhat bitterly, and downed the shot. Napier put his head in his hand, setting the shot glass in front of him, his fingers slack. The glass tipped slightly in his grasp, and he closed his eyes, taking deep, settling breaths. "I don' think I'munna use it jus' yet," he said, swallowing. "I'mma... wait 'til I'm a little less..." He indicated himself half-heartedly, then set his shot glass down on the counter and made a wrist movement to get Rosa's attention to fill up the glass again. When the shot glass was full again, he picked it up, moved to down it, hesitated, and then drank it.

Julio watched him intently, frowning slightly. "Hey, man," he said. "I seen some people come an' go in my day, but... you look like you got some deep shit goin' on." He leaned towards Napier. "What's eatin' you, _ese?_"

Napier looked up at Julio, blurry, his mouth hanging slightly open. "Iss'complicated," he mumbled, setting his shot glass down again. He looked up at Rosa and indicated for her to fill the glass once more. Napier picked up the shot, then paused and set it back down. He fished in his pocket, pulling out a crumpled hundred, and handed it over to Rosa. "In case I pass out," he said, "I've paid you." He picked up his shot glass again and wet his lips. "Keep th' change," he muttered, and downed the shot.

A door at the back of the casino opened, and White emerged, puffing at his cigar, thoughtful and somewhat pleased with himself. His business associate had preferred to use the back exit so no one would see him and recognize him, he had told White, and so White had picked a private room with a back exit. Now that he had finished meeting with the man and a good sum of money had changed hands one way or another, White was resurfacing to look for his hot lay. He knew he had seen the woman around before, but he could not quite place her, except that she had been an associate of the Penguin's.

White frowned at the thought. His own strictly-business relationship with Cobblepot had grown strained over the recent Joker incidents, and Cobblepot was not an easy man to deal with. Once, Cobblepot had been a fledgling Lounge owner, depending on White to provide him the money he needed to keep his little hideout up and running. But once he took up illegal arms dealing, Cobblepot's own monetary earnings, as well as his name in the world of crime, had skyrocketed, and Cobblepot had not had much use for White financially after that. In fact, once or twice during the beginning, White had found himself in debt to Cobblepot after an impulsive spending spree, usually brought about by his current squeeze's love for anything with a price tag, but he had always managed to pull himself out of the hole with some kind of dirty money.

Now Cobblepot and White were nothing more than associates, and both were recognized names with the other's inner circle, though neither pursued any kind of business endeavours with the other anymore. However, more recently, Cobblepot had begun to grow soft, in White's opinion, calling his associates his 'friends', and taking a personal interest in his clients. White had never been fond of the personal touch, further than finding a sexy broad and taking her upstairs for a good lay. But, as the numbers began to pour in, White began to realize that Cobblepot's more friendly nature was pulling in a higher annual draw – and the numbers were going up every year.

This had infuriated White, who prided himself on being not only the richest man in underground Gotham, but also the most successful man to make his fortune solely off of illegal activities, and never getting caught. But he knew that Cobblepot had an ace in the hole in the situation, and so he had set it as his goal to stamp out Cobblepot's steady incline of income by going straight to the source. His first attempt to get the Joker to help him had been a failure, and so he had moved on to someone else – who had been much more helpful in the matter. Now White, proud of his sinister plot, strutted between the card-players, sweaty dancers, and slot-players, looking everyone over with a kind of glowing superiority.

He reached the bar and sat down a few stools down from Napier, looking up at Rosa. "Good news, Rosa," he said, puffing out his chest as he took his cigar from his mouth and grinned at the hefty Mexican barmaid. "This one was a success. We're in business."

"Congratulations, Señor," Rosa said, setting out a glass for him. She picked up a handful of ice, dropped it into his glass, then filled his glass with scotch. "He is all set with your plan?"

"He knows the whole drill," White said, indicating towards Rosa with his drink. He chuckled, clinking the ice cubes around in his glass. "I'm going to be on top of the world again," he said, pleased with himself, and took a sip of his drink. Then he glanced over at Napier. "Why the long face?" he asked. "Tonight isn't a night to be sad. Cheer up, bud!"

Napier sighed, then shook his head, unsteady. "No," he said, frowning.

White was slightly taken aback by this response. "No?" he asked. He frowned. "What's the matter with you?" White asked, nudging Napier. "Your girl leave you or somethin'?"

Napier glanced up at him, then back at his empty shot glass. "Sunthin' like that," he mumbled. He picked up his shot glass and indicated for Rosa to fill it again, which she did. He stared at it for a long moment, then said in a low, thick voice, "She kicked me out, an' she took my daughter... she said I din' deserve t' be a father." He looked up at White. "An' she's right," he said. "I don'. I'm jus' a fuck-up." He looked back at his shot, then downed it.

White watched his face intently, taking in his scars, and frowned slightly. "Do I know you?" he asked. "You seem very familiar."

Napier glanced over at him, unenthused. "Lemme give you a hint..." he said. He paused, thinking, and then said in a flat, monotone voice, "Ha... ha... ha."

"Oh, that's right," said White, pointing at him. "You're the Joker. It's been a while since we seen each other."

"Yeah," agreed Napier sarcastically, "a whole day. Imagine that."

"Yep," said White, pretending to be oblivious to Napier's cynicism. "Oh, and, by the way, I found somebody for the job, so... no hard feelings." He grinned at Napier, puffing at his cigar, and turned back to Rosa. "Anybody interesting come through here while I was gone?" he asked.

"No, Señor," said Rosa, cleaning a glass.

"Damn," said White, still upbeat, as if nothing could kill his good mood. "Cobblepot always has interesting people come through in his lounge."

Napier let out a breath of laughter in agreement. "You c'n say that again," he said, looking up at White. "All kinds of crazy people come through Collbl... Cobpl..." He paused, trying to figure out how to form the word in his mouth, then shook his head, giving up. "All kinds of people come through there," he said. He thought about it for a moment, then said, "Like that one time Harvey Dent came in with his boyfriend."

"Boyfriend?" asked White, looking up, surprised and intrigued. "Harvey Dent is an ass pirate?"

Napier frowned, closing his eyes, then looked over at White, sceptical. "Say what?" he asked.

"Harvey Dent is queerbait," White laughed. "Well, I'll be damned. I woulda never guessed it. Fucker's so manly I thought he'd be on a diet of strictly pussy. But I guess he's too damn horny for just one broad!" He laughed again. "So he decided to try somethin' new. Well, I'll have to ask him how that goes one a' these days. I ain't never been sucked off by a guy."

Napier nodded absently, bringing his shot glass to his mouth. "It isn't half bad," he mumbled, and downed his shot.

"What, you're a rainbow warrior, too?" White asked, looking over at Napier.

Napier looked back at him, his expression flat. "I spent five years in Arkham," he replied, monotone. "The first thing they teach you there is to never drop the soap."

"So you're queer?" said White. He scoffed. "No wonder your woman left you an' said you wasn't fit to be a daddy. I wouldn't want my kids raised by no queer, neither."

Napier frowned darkly at him. "I'm not queer," he said, his voice dangerous.

"I'm sure Harvey Dent would say the same thing if I asked him," White said, grinning, revealing even, yellowed teeth. "You guys, so afraid a' comin' out. It's okay, here... it's Gotham, for fuck's sake. If you haven't fucked at least five people by the time you're outta college, you're a late bloomer." He shrugged. "An' as for fuckin' guys... you shouldn't be ashamed to admit you like it."

"I _don't_ like it," Napier said, his expression growing steadily angrier. "I'm not queer."

White stared at him for a moment, then a slick, unpleasant grin of recognition began to split his face. "Hey," he said, "your girl... she's the Italian broad, yeah? Friend a' Cobblepot's? Long legs, dark hair, cheekbones, face like a model?" He chuckled. "Yeah, I know 'er," he said. "She's a real looker. Real easy to bed, too."

Napier looked up at him in surprise at this. "What?" he asked, suddenly defensive.

"Easy to bed," said White. He knew he was getting on Napier's nerves now, and it was proving to be uncannily satisfying. Napier had put him through all the trouble of finding someone else to do the job White had counted on him to do, and so kicking him while he was down was the most gratifying thing White could think to do while he had Napier in such close proximity. He grinned, taking his cigar from his mouth and indicating Napier with it. "I bet even you got into her skirt, huh?" he asked.

Napier turned away from him, staring angrily down at his shot glass, stolidly saying nothing. White smirked at Napier's lack of response, then leaned down to his ear. "You wanna know something?" he asked. "Your girl… you wanna know who she left you for?" He chuckled, taking his cigar from his mouth. "She left you for me."

Without warning, Napier flew off the barstool and grabbed up White by the front of his jacket. "I'munna kill you!" he roared, shaking White. Instantly, two bouncers appeared and seized Napier by the arms, dragging him off of White. Napier bared his teeth like a wild animal. "I'munna fuckin' kill you!"

"Get off me!" White said, taking a step back as Napier was pulled off of him.

"Sit down before you fall down, asshole." One of the bouncers pushed Napier back onto the barstool as the other one stood beside White, arms crossed against his chest. "Stupid fuckin' drunk."

White stared at Napier, frowning and dusting off his jacket, as if Napier had gotten some kind of dirt on it by touching him. Then he straightened his tie and cleared his throat. "I didn't think you'd get so worked up about it," White said, scoffing. "I mean, it's no surprise. _Look _at you. A girl like her's too good for a guy like you."

"You're scum, White," Napier growled.

"And you're trash," said White coldly, leaning forward towards Napier.

Napier started to get up again to attack White, but again the bouncers pushed him back onto the barstool. He glared up at White, breathing heavily. "You're a bottom-feeding cocksucking motherfucker, White," he hissed. "She's only interested in you 'cause she wants to kill you, just like the rest of us."

"Is that so?" asked White. He put his cigar back into his mouth and puffed thoughtfully at it. "It's no wonder they call you the Joker," he said slowly, making every word count. "You're a fuckin' joke." White turned to the bouncers and indicated towards Napier. "Throw him out in the gutter," he said, starting to walk away. "Where he belongs."

The two bouncers grabbed Napier by the arms, and he wrenched one arm free from one of them, only to have it grabbed back, just as roughly. "You're a dead man, White!" Napier shouted after him as he was dragged towards the exit of the casino. The bouncers opened the casino's doors and tossed Napier out into the street, where he fell into a heap on the ground. Then the casino doors shut loudly behind him.

Napier leaned against the side of an alleyway, his fist clenched against the rough texture of the wall, and rested his forehead against the cool bricks, breathing heavily. He closed his eyes, wetting his lips, and then leaned down and was sick against the wall. He coughed, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, and leaned heavily against the wall, panting. He would be feeling this in the morning, he was sure. He would wake up with an immense hangover, and that was when reality would hit him. He had been banned from seeing his daughter ever again, and it was entirely his fault.

He turned, leaning his back against the alleyway, and closed his eyes, breathing heavily as he tried to collect himself. "Shit," he breathed, putting a hand to his clammy forehead. His eyes fluttered open and he stared at the wall ahead of him. Then a noise caught his attention, and he turned his head in time to see someone standing at the front of the alleyway, staring at him. He stared back at the man, his brow furrowing, and then called out to him, "What're you lookin' at?"

The man at the end of the alleyway hesitated, and then started towards Napier. Napier turned his face away again, looking towards the wall, and closed his eyes, breathing heavily. "What d'you want?" he asked. "I don' have any money..."

The man stared at Napier for a long moment before speaking. "Hey, _ese,_" said Julio, frowning as he looked down at Napier. "You're lookin' pretty awful, there, man. You okay?"

Napier looked up at him, panting, and blinked, recognizing the little Mexican man standing before him. Then he nodded, wetting his lips and swallowing. "I'm fine," he said, his voice hoarse.

"You don' _look _fine," countered Julio, keeping his distance. He slitted his eyes, his brow furrowing as he stared at Napier. "Hey, wait a minute," he said, pointing at Napier. "You're that guy from the bar. White said you were the Joker." He frowned, looking Napier up and down. "You don' look like the Joker to me, man," he said, shaking his head disdainfully.

"I'm th' Joker," Napier replied, clearing his throat. "I'm jus'..." He wavered, leaning his head against the wall again as he swallowed, trying to regain some semblance of composure. "It's complicated," he said, shaking his head.

"What's complicated about it?" Julio asked him, critical. "You the Joker or what?"

Napier looked up at Julio with blurry, red eyes, his mouth hanging slightly open, and slowly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I _am,_" he insisted, trying to straighten up. "I'm th'... I'm th'..." He staggered, having to catch his balance again, then paused, staring blankly at the ground. "Aw, shit," he mumbled, then bent double and was sick again.

Julio closed his eyes and turned away, cringing. "Hey, man," he said, hesitantly turning back to Napier. "You need to find a john to do that in or somethin', 'cause people walk here." Then he looked at Napier, crossing his arms. "You talk real big," he said, "callin' yourself the Joker an' all... but you ain't actin' it, _ese._" He shrugged. "You wanna scare the people, you gotta act the part. Right now you're just actin' like some drunk bum."

Napier looked up at Julio, his expression dark, as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "I'm not a drunk," he told him, his voice low and dangerous. "An' I'm not a bum. I'm a respected criminal in Gotham, an'..." He stopped, losing his train of thought, and looked away from Julio, hazy and lost. Then he looked back at him, wetting his lips. "I'm... a respected... criminal, an'..." He shook his head slowly, trying to remember what he was going to say, but it was not coming to him.

Julio watched him intently, leaning forward slightly to catch the last part of his phrase. He raised his eyebrows, sceptical and critical. "You're fallin' apart, is what you are, _ese,_" he said, his voice monotone. "You got a place to stay the night, man? 'Cause you'll get arrested if you go wandering the streets like this."

Napier chuckled languidly, swaying slightly as he thought about it. "I think thass'the _last_ thing I'd get arrested for," he told Julio. "I think murder n' destruct... derstric..." He paused, blinking off-kilter, and wet his lips. "I blew some shit up," he said. He made a motion with his hands and a poor accompanying noise to illustrate what he meant, then shook his head. "I'm a... bad..." He paused again, his eyelids starting to close as he slowly wet his lips again, starting to slowly lose consciousness. "Bad... bad... per..."

"Hey," Julio said, snapping his fingers. "Hey, don't pass out on me, _ese_." He patted the side of Napier's face, trying to wake him back up. "You never answered my question, man," he said. "You got a place to stay?"

Napier stared at him for a long moment, hazy, and then shook his head. "No," he said. "I got... kicked outta th' place I... usually stay." He slid up the wall, trying to stand to his full height but still slouching slightly. "I guess I'll... jus'... sleep out here t'night."

Julio stared at Napier, then glanced over his shoulder. "Hey, man," he said, "it's dangerous out here. You'll get, like, shanked, or... raped, or something." He twisted his mouth, trying to think as to where Napier could stay, then raised his eyebrows. "You could stay with us, man," he said. "I mean, as long as you aren't, like, rowdy an' shit, Rosa don't have to know you're there." He shrugged. "If you want, that is," he added.

Napier's eyes strayed as he thought on Julio's offer. Then he pushed himself off from the wall and stood, one hand still holding his balance against the side of the alley. "Lead the way, Doctor Mexican," he said, indicating for Julio to show him to his house.

. . .

The door of the VIP room opened, and White looked up to see who had intruded on his privacy. He sat against the side of the bed, puffing thoughtfully on his cigar, his jacket neglected over the back of a chair. As if it had not been bad enough to have been manhandled by the maniac that had turned his job offer down, when he had returned to his favourite room from the bar, he had found that his hot lay had up and left without a word. Tonight was turning out to be worse than Warren White had even imagined it could be – and he still had the pocketful of cash from the dog fight, unspent, sitting in his pocket.

"Took you long enough," he said, turning away from the newcomer and putting the cigar back into his mouth, taking a few puffs on it. "You get busy fucking and forget the time, or somethin'?"

"Very funny, Warren," Selina said, pulling out a cigarette and lighter before tossing down her purse and starting towards White. She lit her cigarette, then let out an irritated huff of smoke. "He was with another date. Then that girl he has the major boner for, from the DA's office, decides to show up with her big blond boyfriend."

"Sounds like you had one hell of a time," White said, raising his eyebrows. He took a puff of his cigar, then asked, "So, did you get into his pants, or what?"

"No." Selina took a long drag of her cigarette, then exhaled the smoke in a long line, letting it dissipate before going on. "I almost had him nailed, but then he up and leaves. Family emergency, or something. Shit, I dunno. One minute he was there, next he was gettin' into his fancy car and driving off." She took a short, annoyed hit of her cigarette, then added, "Without me."

"Well, fuck, darlin'," said White, looking away. "Sounds like your evening was even more shitty than mine. An' that's sayin' something."

"Oh, yeah?" asked Selina. "What happened to you, Mister Self-Centred?"

"Well," said White, ignoring the nickname, "Duke won the fight, and I found a good broad... and, to add to that, I found somebody to do the job I been lookin' for someone to do."

"Sounds like your night was pretty okay," said Selina, but White held up a hand, cutting her off.

"Turns out, though," he said, cutting over Selina, "turns out that broad... well, she was the Joker's girl. So the Joker shows up a little later, totally shit-faced... tells me she's left him. An' that was just satisfying, 'cause he didn't wanna do the job for us, and now I just about fucked his girl. Never actually got around to it, but..." He shrugged. "He doesn't have to know that." He took a long puff on his cigar, and Selina stared at him in curious wonder.

"So you told him you fucked his girl?" she asked.

"Yeah," said White. "He got pretty pissed off. Nearly fuckin' tore my head off over it. I had him tossed out on his ass." He glanced over his shoulder. "Then I come back up here, an' the broad's gone." He shrugged, taking a pull of his cigar. "Got tired of waiting, I guess."

"And the guy you got, for the job," said Selina, intrigued. "He's gonna do it good, right?"

"He fuckin' _better,_" replied White. "I knew him a while back, he's a good man for the job. He told me he still needed a couple things, but that he'd get the job done ASAP."

"And you believe him?" asked Selina.

White shrugged, taking his cigar from his mouth. "I don't believe anything, on principle, until I see it," he replied, turning to look at her. "But I tell you somethin', honey, if this guy don't get the job done, no one will."

Selina nodded, then slipped her arm into White's and pulled his hand onto her upper thigh, grinning at him. "Hey, big boy," she said. "Cheer up. A lotta bad stuff happened to both of us today, but that don't mean we can't make it up to one another."

White grinned at her, raising an eyebrow. "Did I ever mention that I like the way you think?" he asked.

. . .

The lock of the front door clicked undone, and the door swung open. Two shadows stretched into the front hallway, one much taller than the other, until the shorter shadow leaned inside and switched on a light. Napier squinted against the bright light, leaning against the door frame as he stared into the apartment. It was a small place, somewhat reddish-brown in colour, with a narrow hallway leading into a living-room, where a single, ragged couch sat in front of a television whose antenna were patched with duct tape and aluminium foil. Doors lined the narrow hallway, and the whole house seemed to be made to accommodate the tiny Mexican man, but not so much his wife.

Napier looked over at Julio, not sure what to do, and Julio stepped into the apartment, indicating for Napier to follow, which he did, rather unsteadily. Julio closed the door behind him, letting Napier wander into the apartment. He passed each door, staring at it momentarily before moving on, and finally flopped down on the couch, which sagged under his weight. Julio stood at the end of the hall, watching him, and crossed his arms as he stared at Napier. "So you're the famous Joker, huh?" he asked.

Napier's head lolled back and he closed his eyes as he rested his head against the back of the couch. "I'm pretty sure you've asked me that before," he mumbled, slurring.

Julio nodded, clearing his throat. Then he took a breath. "Okay," he said, turning back towards the hallway. Rubbing his hands together, he indicated the doors that lined the hallway. "That one is Rosa's room," he said, indicating the last one on the right. "That one is the bathroom." He indicated the last room on the left. "There is the kids' room," he said, indicating the door beside the bathroom.

Napier glanced over at Julio, his brow furrowed slightly. "You've got kids?" he asked.

"Yeah," said Julio, sounding somewhat surprised. "I got two of 'em. Twin boys... Nico, and, uh..." He paused for a moment, then waved it off. "Anyways," he went on. "That's the kids' room. And this one..." he opened the nearest door on the right, "is the room you can use." He looked up at Napier, raising an eyebrow. "I think you better get some shut-eye, man," he said. "I mean, you're welcome here an' all, but... I don't want my kids wakin' up and finding some drunk dude on their couch." He shrugged. "It might be a little distressing when they're that age, you know, man."

"What age is that?" Napier asked.

Julio paused for a moment, thinking about it, and then shrugged. "Young," he answered.

Napier nodded, a little put off. Then he looked back at Julio. "And where do _you_ sleep?" he asked.

Julio stared at him for a long moment, slowly raising his eyebrows. "I sleep on the couch," he answered in an unamused monotone.

Napier paused a moment, trying to collect his thoughts, and then pushed himself up from the couch, trying to regain his balance as he stood, and then started towards the hallway. He paused when he reached the doors, trying to remember which one Julio had indicated for him to sleep in. The hallway was blurry and there were two of every door. He closed his eyes, shaking his head like a wet dog, and then looked up again, only one eye open. "Um..." he said. "Which one...?"

Julio indicated the bedroom Napier was supposed to use again, and opened the door, ushering Napier inside. "Go on, _ese,_" he said. "You need to sleep this off, so you can, like... terrorize the city or some shit tomorrow."

Napier hesitated, then started towards the door, trying to judge distance, but he miscalculated and found himself coming in contact, hard, with the doorframe. He closed his eyes, his hand flying to his nose as he staggered back against the opposite wall, moaning. "Aow," he groaned. "Your fucking door hit me in the face..."

"Hey, man," Julio scolded, "you gonna wake my kids, man. Just get your drunk ass in the room, okay, _ese_?"

Napier nodded, inhaling through his nose and clearing his throat. "Right," he said, straightening up. Then, reaching a hand out in front of him to find the doorframe, Napier stumbled into the bedroom, and Julio closed the door behind him, listening to the creak of bedsprings as Napier apparently collapsed onto the bed, exhausted. He waited at the door for a moment, listening, and was not disappointed when, just a few moments later, he heard the deep, drunken breathing of the big man sleeping.

With a satisfied nod, Julio moved away from the door, back to the couch, and sat down, picking up the remote and turning on the television. Hopefully the sound of the television would distract Rosa from the sounds of Napier sleeping in the spare room. If not... Julio changed the channel, deciding not to think about it. Napier would be gone in the morning, and Rosa would not have to know that he had ever been there.

"You're a genius, man," Julio congratulated himself.

. . .

Gordon stared at Pamela, sitting in her cell, looking dejectedly at the ground. It had been a slow day for the GPD, and so this instance had required the station to call in Gordon from home to attend to the issue. Now he sat contemplating the woman who was seated behind the bars of the front-most cell of the small prison that Gordon oversaw. He tapped his fingertips together, considering what to say to her. Then he cleared his throat. "So you're a, uh… you're a botanist, huh?" he asked, trying for pleasant small talk.

Pamela shrugged. "I was," she answered.

Gordon nodded. "Well, what happened?" he asked. "Did you quit?"

Pamela looked up at him, incredulous. "What, really?" she asked, scoffing. "You really think they're going to let me keep my job after this?"

Gordon shrugged. "I guess that all depends on what kind of deal you can cut with Harvey Dent," he said. "Of course, the Gotham Police won't exactly be on your side on this one, but… I'm sure you'll be able to work something out." He smiled at her, trying to be friendly.

Pamela frowned at him. "Harvey Dent is a cocky asshole," she said.

Gordon paused, then raised his eyebrows and heaved a breath. "Well, I can't say that I haven't shared similar sentiments on multiple occasions," he admitted, looking away. He adjusted his glasses on his face, then looked back at Pamela. There was a long moment of silence. Then Gordon spoke up, "Do you have family in Gotham, Pamela?"

Pamela looked up, surprised at the question. "Um… no," she answered.

"Nobody?" asked Gordon, a little taken aback. "Mother, father…?"

"My parents live in a different state," said Pamela. "I'm not exactly on speaking terms with them…"

"Ah," said Gordon, nodding. "So then… why stay in Gotham, of all places?" He glanced over his shoulder. "I mean, there's nothing _green_ here, unless you count the marijuana." He smiled at her. "What's a botanist to do in a place like Gotham?" he asked.

Pamela looked away. "There's a good place for botanists to work here," she answered simply. Then she looked back at Gordon. "I was only staying here because my best friend lived here," she said. "She was a nurse, over at Gotham General… but she's dead now."

Gordon frowned slightly. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said in a lower voice. "What was her name?"

"Harleen," answered Pamela. "Harleen Quinzel. She wanted to work at Arkham… I could never figure out why… but she had to work her way up, so she worked as a receptionist and part-time nurse for Gotham General for the credit hours, hoping to get some kind of… letter of recommendation, or something." She shrugged. "I don't think Doctor Crane would have accepted it, anyways," she said. "He seems a little… _off._"

"_A little?_" Gordon chuckled. "Oh, trust me, he's more than just _a little_ off."

"Harley got killed by the Joker," Pamela went on, ignoring Gordon's comment. "He raped and then drowned her. He didn't even have the common decency to clothe her after he…" Her voice trailed off, and she put her face in her hand, trying to hold back tears.

Gordon stood from his chair, moving to the bars of Pamela's cell, and leaned against them, looking in on her. "I'm so sorry, Pamela," he said. He pulled his own initialed handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her, and she took it, dabbing at her eyes with it and sniffling. Gordon put his hands in his pockets, watching her. Then he said, "You know, you're much safer in here than out there… the Joker will probably go after you next, since he went after Harleen."

"I don't care," sniffed Pamela. "Let him. I really don't care anymore. If he wants me, he's welcome to come get me."

Gordon paused, frowning slightly. "That isn't the way to be, Pamela," he said, fatherly. "I'm sure things will look up for you… giving up like that isn't the way to go." He looked down at his feet, scuffing one shoe against the cold floor of the prison. Then he looked up at Pamela. "You know," he said, suddenly getting an idea, "I might actually be able to use you…"

Pamela looked up in interest at this. "What?" she asked.

Gordon nodded, pointing at her. "The Joker is looking for you," he said. "You want to clear your charges." He thought for a moment, then said, "If you get me the Joker… I'll clean your record and set you up with a nice higher job in the Botanical Society, or whatever it is."

Pamela stood from her seat and started towards the bars, looking determinedly through them at Gordon. "I'll do it," she said, nodding.

Gordon nodded, too. Then he frowned. "This is a dangerous task, you know," he warned her. "Don't just take it on the spur of the moment."

"I'm not," Pamela assured him.

"And if you try to run," warned Gordon, "Batman will get you, and we'll punish you twice as hard as before."

Pamela nodded and handed back his handkerchief. "Harleen deserves better than what she got. I'm going to get you the Joker…" She paused a moment. "But I want to see him get what he deserves, when you do get him," she said.

Gordon nodded, then pulled out his ring of keys. "It's a deal," he said, unlocking her jail cell. He indicated the doors for her. "Just don't get too carried away," he warned her.

She smiled back at him, then flipped her long, red hair. "You got it, Officer," she said. Then she disappeared out the door.

. . .

It was some ungodly hour of the morning, and Napier could hardly walk, but he had to piss like a racehorse. That was what had woke him up, and he sat up in bed, putting a hand to his swimming head as he tried to focus on the door and convince himself to stand up and go towards it. Finally, he got to his feet and moved to the door, opening it and letting himself out into the hallway. He paused a moment, leaning in the doorframe as he tried to remember which door Julio had told him was the bathroom, and, finally deciding on one, he started towards it. Opening the door and flicking the light on, he was relieved to see the familiar setup of a standard wash-room, and, with a sigh, he unzipped his slacks, pushed his boxers around his calves, then lifted the lid and set to work.

Napier cleared his throat, staring blankly at a point on the wall, thinking. This place was different from all the other places he had been offered to sleep; at those other places, either he had had to murder the inhabitants to get to sleep there, or he had been invited in as not only a houseguest, but also as a kind of bodyguard or lover. Here, he was just a man with nowhere else to go, and he was not expected to give anything in return. It was strangely invigorating to get something for nothing, almost as if he were actually a worthwhile human being, and not a mentally unstable freak.

He sniffed lightly, thinking about that as he finished up, when suddenly, a noise caught his attention and he turned to see a small Mexican child, no more than seven or eight years old, staring at him, wide-eyed, his mouth hanging open. Napier stared at the child over his shoulder for a long moment, then smiled awkwardly. "Hi," he said, dragging the word out.

The child stared at him for a moment longer, then screamed, "_MAMIII!!_"

Napier almost jumped out of his skin at the sound, but instantly he rushed forward and grabbed hold of the child, putting a large hand over the little boy's mouth. "Shut up!" he hissed. "Do you want to wake everybody up? For chrissakes, I just had to piss!" The little boy thrashed and struggled in his grip, trying to pry his hand away from his mouth, whimpering like a scared puppy. Then an enormous shadow appeared over both of them, and Napier looked up into the face of a large, angry Mexican woman.

"What the hell do you think you're doing to my Nico?!" she demanded.

Napier stared at her for a moment, then down at the boy. "Um…" he said, awkward. He let go of the child and stood up, clearing his throat. Rosa stared in horror at his pants and boxers around his calves, and Napier felt his ears burning. "Go on, small child," he said, pushing on the small of the boy's back. "Go to your… Mami." He offered an embarrassed apologetic smile to Rosa, but she just glared at him. If looks could kill, Napier told himself, he would have been six feet under.

"What's going on in here?" Julio pushed past Rosa into the bathroom, and instantly turned away when he saw Napier standing there, half-naked. "Man, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Julio asked, sounding more exasperated than upset. "You can't just parade around like that, man, I got kids in the house!"

_"¡Usted no puede estar trayendo a algún hombre aleatorio en nuestra casa!"_ Rosa screamed at Julio, indicating Napier. _"¡Este bastardo viola nuestros niños!"_

"What?" Napier asked, totally lost. "What is she saying about me?"

_"¡No él no es!"_ Julio argued back. _"¡El es bebido y es necesitado un lugar para dormir!"_

Napier raised a hesitant hand. "Um, if I could just say something, here," he tried to interject, but he was cut off by Rosa again.

_"¡Ah el derecho!"_ she screamed. _"¡Estoy seguro! ¿El acaba de tirar sus pantalones de causa que él fuera, qué?" _She pointed at Napier's bare lower half. _"¡Bored?!"_

"Hey, now," said Napier, frowning, reproachful. "You can't do that, saying stuff I don't understand about me like that..." He turned to Julio. "What did she say about me?" he asked, a little firmer.

_"Rosa, se acuesta,"_ Julio said, holding up his hands in a calming manner. _"Yo lo manejaré. El será ido por la mañana de todos modos."_

"What did she say about my dick, Julio?" Napier demanded.

"You have a very nice dick, _ese,_" Julio assured him, as if talking to a small child. "Don't worry about it. We're just having a little disagreement." Rosa glared at Napier again, then turned and stormed off, taking Nico with her. Julio watched them leave, then turned back to Napier with a carelessly confused look on his face. "Why'd you have to go bein' all exhibitionist in front of my wife, man?" he asked. "I mean, I can appreciate how nice it feels to walk around naked and stuff, _ese, _but…"

Napier grabbed his boxers and pants and yanked them up to his waist, zipping up his pants securely, and glared at Julio. "I'm going back to bed," he announced. "Where I may die of embarrassment." He took a deep breath. "If I die," he said, "make sure they bury me with my clothes _on._" Then he pushed past Julio, went back into his bedroom, and closed the door.


	57. Chapter FiftySix

The sunlight streamed in through the curtainless windows of the small apartment as Julio opened the door of Napier's bedroom, ready to wake the sleeping behemoth from his drunken slumber. When he opened the door, the first thing he saw was the large man's leg hanging off the side of the bed. He had the urge to find a feather and tickle the bare foot, to give the hung-over giant a rather awkward awakening, but resisted the urge, instead clearing his throat and knocking on the open door. "Good morning, Sunshine," he said in a painfully friendly sing-song voice. "It's time to wake up."

"Mm," Napier moaned, picking up a pillow and putting it over his head, holding it down. "Fuck off."

"Hey, man," said Julio, suddenly reproachful, quickly dropping the friendly tone. "That ain't cool. This is my house, _ese,_ you can't tell me to fuck off." He grabbed the blanket that Napier had been using and yanked it off of the bed, tossing it into a pile on the floor. "Get up, stupid," he said.

Napier groaned and slowly sat up in bed, staring at Julio, blurry-eyed and irked. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice a low growl. He put a hand to his head, rubbing his temple, and closed his eyes tightly again. "My… head," he grunted. "Shit."

"You see?" said Julio. "You're so stupid it hurts." He moved to Napier, patting him on the side of the face. "Now wake up," he instructed him. Napier batted at his hand, trying to get him to stop, but Julio just slapped his hand away and kept tapping the side of his face until Napier shook his head and flailed at him with both arms.

"I'm up," he said, rubbing his eyes. "I'm up, goddamn it."

"Good," said Julio. "'Cause if Rosa had woken up and found out you were still here, we'd both have hell to pay."

Napier stared at Julio through one open eye. "Rosa," he mumbled. "She that angry elephant that tried to kill me yesterday?"

"Hey, _ese,_" said Julio reproachfully. "Don't talk about my wife that way, man. Rosa… she used to be one hot _senorita._" He shrugged. "I'll have to show you her picture sometime," he said. "But man, Rosa… she used to be _smokin'_."

"I'll take your word for it," Napier yawned, rubbing his temples.

"Good," said Julio. "Now get up, and get some pants on. We're gonna take a walk… get some fresh air and all that." He picked up Napier's pants and tossed them to him. "It'll clear your head and get me out of trouble."

Napier awkwardly caught his pants and began to drag them on, his head throbbing. "Where… am I?" he asked. He looked up at Julio. "What happened last night?"

"You got kicked outta your house," said Julio. "Some girl you fucked or something said you weren't a good father, so… you got all pissed off and picked a fight with Warren White." He shrugged. "At least, that's what I gathered. You weren't makin' much sense, man, to tell you the truth. You were kinda…" He paused, trying to think of the words to describe it. "Slurring a lot."

Napier stared at him, confused and taken aback, and said, "Wait… what?" He looked away as he picked up his shirt and slipped it on. "I…" He paused, pulling on his vest, and when he felt something heavy in one of the pockets, he put his hand inside, trying to figure out what it was, and pulled out a packet of heroin. He stared at it for a long moment, then looked up at Julio. "I was trying to kill myself," he said.

Julio raised his eyebrows. "Well," he said, "looks like you didn't do such a good job." He hesitated a moment, then asked, "Hey, you aren't gonna try again, are you?" He glanced over his shoulder. "If you do, just… don't, like, hang yourself in the closet or nothin', man, 'cause… Rosa will get mad at me if there's a dead guy where her clothes are supposed to go."

Napier stared at Julio for a moment. "I don't scare you at all, do I?" he asked.

Julio raised an eyebrow, then shrugged and shook his head. "Were you trying to scare me, _ese_?" he asked, totally oblivious. "If so, I'll try to act a little more scared." He paused a moment. "Aah," he said, monotone. "Don't, like, kill me or any of that shit, man."

Napier stared at him, his brow slowly furrowing. "That didn't help," he said.

Julio shrugged. "Hey, at least I tried," he said. "You gotta give me some credit for that."

Napier let out a deep breath, sitting back down on the bed and starting to pull on his shoes, making sure they were tightly laced before standing again. He cleared his throat, looking over at Julio. "I guess we should go," he said.

Julio nodded, then indicated out the door. "Ladies first," he said.

. . .

Someone rapped on Kaitlyn's door three times then rang the doorbell.

She sat up groggily, wincing and gritting her teeth against the pain in her lower back. Falling asleep in a chair while watching late-night monster movies had probably _not_ been the best idea she'd ever come up with. She groaned and stood, wavering slightly before she got her balance. A glance to the clock told her that it was approximately way too fucking early to be awake. Then she headed to the couch and flopped down amidst a pile of blankets and pillows left there specifically for that purpose. It wasn't being _messy_, she constantly reminded Robert; it was called planning..

"Kaitlyn! Come on, get up!"

She looked up, murder in her eyes. She didn't need to recognize that voice, way too eager and awake for this early in the morning, to know who was at her door. Only Robert would be so damn persistent.

She settled back into her covers, snuggling up her pillow. She could wait the guy out, easy. Another knock jarred her awake. "Kaitlyn, seriously. We've got work to do today." She snarled aloud and tucked a pillow over her head. Almost asleep once more, a final plea came from outside the door: "Creed. Let's go. Get your butt out of bed."

That was the last straw. Kaitlyn grabbed the pillow off of her head and chucked it at the door. It connected with a very dissatisfying muffled thud, so she accompanied it with a fiery shriek. "WHAT THE FUCK TIME DO YOU THINK IT IS?" she yelled; this would probably wake up her entire apartment complex and get the tenants even more pissed at her. Whatever. "IT IS TEN IN THE FUCKING MORNING, AND I AM EXHAUSTED. GO _AWAY_, TASSLE."

Robert stared at the door for a moment, then shrugged it off with a grin and headed back down the stairs. That was Fuse for you; give her an interesting case, flexible work hours, and a good twelve hours of sleep, and she'd still bite your head off. He sighed. Now all he had to do was find something to entertain him for the next few hours, or at least until Kaitlyn decided to get up. So what on earth was he supposed to do with himself?

As he reached his car, a slow grin spread over his face. Maybe _Maggie_ would appreciate some morning company.

He popped into the Lounge, checking his watch quickly. Ten-thirty. Plenty of time before Kaitlyn decided to grace the world with her sparkling morning personality. A perpetual grin on his face, he looked curiously around, heading back towards the bar. He didn't think he'd ever been in the Lounge this early. There was absolutely _no one_ here. Then again, he'd be worried if there was; it was a dinner place, not some breakfast diner, and anyone who came in for a drink this early had some kind of problem. He lounged on a bar stool, wondering if either of the owners were about.

Maggie yawned as she entered the main area of the Lounge, reminding herself not to rub her eyes, for fear of smudging her newly-applied makeup. She had been given the eight-hour sleeping period between two and ten in the morning, and she was still waking up. Cobblepot had opted to cover the managerial slot, and now it was his turn to sleep. Maggie had suggested letting Tally watch over the Lounge for a while when he came back from his break, right after the seemingly rather testy woman who was supposed to meet up with the newspaper writer had left, but Cobblepot had shook his head. "He's only a bouncer, Maggie," said Cobblepot. "You need someone with a presence to run a place like this."

So Cobblepot had taken the long shift, and when he had woken up Maggie from her nap, he had looked utterly burned out. Maggie had offered him some kind words, and had even let him help her pick out what dress she would wear, and then wished him pleasant dreams before putting on her makeup and heading out into the Lounge. Now she headed over to the bar, ready to start her usual daily routine of polishing and arranging the bottles behind the bar, but she stopped short when she saw that someone was already sitting at the bar, waiting to be served. She was a little taken aback that someone would be interested in drinking at such an early hour of the morning, but then she put a thoughtful hand on her hip, studying him.

"Robert," she finally said with a smile, recognizing him. "Robert Tassle, my favourite person in the whole wide world." Maggie moved over behind the bar and leaned across it, giving Robert a welcoming peck on the cheek. "It's been so long since we've seen each other," she said. "I missed you all day yesterday. You usually come in every day, if only to say hi." She smiled at him, picking up her cloth and a glass and starting to clean it. "I guess you just got busy in that hectic line of work you're in. ...What are you, again? An FBI agent?" She laughed, setting down the glass, and picked up a bottle of sparkling mineral water, pouring the glass full for him and then sliding it towards him.

"Os isn't here at the moment, unfortunately," she said, glancing over towards the door that led into the back room of the Lounge. "He's sleeping at the moment. A twenty-four-hour schedule can get to you, as you can imagine." She looked back at Robert, raising her eyebrows. "So tell me," she said, leaning on the bar top towards him, "what new and exciting things are happening in the life of Robert Tassle?"

Robert swapped his somewhat contemplative expression for an easy smile as soon as Maggie appeared. "_Very_ busy. _Exceedingly_ busy," he assured her. In a somewhat pained tone, he added, "I _am_ sorry I didn't visit yesterday. Things got...complicated."

He eyed her silently for a moment, and decided to share. What harm could it do, really? "We hit a few leads yesterday. Kaitlyn and I," he elaborated, nodding his thanks as the water was set in front of him. He took a drink (more out of good manners than anything), and leaned forward on the counter. "We're after the Joker, y'know..." He tilted his head, losing focus for a moment at the sound of traffic coming from the street. The early morning rush was beginning. "Um, anyways, I followed a pretty stale trail back to that hotel that blew up. The Radisson, remember?"

He turned back to Maggie with a grimace. "Not much there, I guess, just a bunch of molten metal." He sighed. The woes of being a private investigator. "But I haven't talked to Kaitlyn yet today...at least, not really..." He grinned. Having a pillow thrown at you wasn't really talking. "Maybe she found something."

"And I'm gracing your oh-so-gorgeous presence _now_," he finished grandly, with a boyish grin that ruined the melodrama beautifully, "because my dear partner refuses to get her lazy self out of bed." He shrugged, and his nonchalant look turned to a grimace. "And hell hath no fury like an irritable woman dragged out of bed, so I can wait."

"Oh, don't worry yourself about it, dear," said Maggie, putting a reassuring hand on his arm. "I was just joshing you, anyways. I don't mind if you get busy and don't have time to stop in." She smiled at him. "Of course, it's always nice when you _do_ come by to see me," she added, retracting her hand. She nodded as he began to tell his story, picking up a glass and her cleaning-cloth, and listened intently. "Oh, really?" she asked, only half-paying-attention to him. "Yes, I remember the Radisson… it was just down the street, a ways. It's a bit hard to ignore when something that big gets blown up…"

She paused then, setting down the glass and her cloth, and looked at Robert. "The Joker, you say?" she asked. She raised her eyebrows, leaning on the bar top. "You know," she said, "you came to the right place, but just at the wrong time." She leaned on her elbows on the counter towards him. "The Joker came in here just yesterday," she said. "If you'd come then, you might have been able to get your information and then some." She paused, glancing over her shoulder, and then turned back to Robert. "There was also a reporter from the Times here with him," she said. "Thomas… something, I think."

Maggie bit her lip, thinking, then shrugged, giving up. "I don't think the Joker will be coming around here anymore, though," she said. "He's on a mission… he's trying to find his wife. Apparently someone kidnapped her." She thought back to her conversation with the young woman who had been supposed to meet up with Thomas, the night before. "Jonathan Crane," she said. "The old director of Arkham Asylum. You know, the one who did the experiments on his inmates." She shuddered, thinking about it.

"Let's not think about that," Maggie said, leaning back away from Robert and going back to cleaning her glass. She smiled at him when he complimented her, and chuckled slightly. Robert was sweet, and for some reason he liked to flirt shamelessly with her, despite her being older than him by at least a year, if not more. "You are an absolute doll," she told him, setting down the glass. "Either that, or you want something." She gave him an amiable smile. "Go on," she said. "What is it this time? More insider information? Another name or face to look out for?"

Robert nodded in grudging acceptance, relieved that she wasn't angry. He'd make up for that slip-up; he was more tenacious than a dog with a bone when he wanted to be. That particular trait was even necessary for his job. With Kaitlyn around, _one_ of them had to keep up with things.

He perked up instantly at the mention of the Joker. He was back in investigator-mode. "Aww, shoot!" he exclaimed, disappointed, when Maggie had finished. Talk about rotten luck. If he'd have come in last night like he'd originally intended, he'd not only have gotten to visit with Maggie, but the case would be closed by now. He leaned back in his seat and laced his fingers together behind his head. Ah, well. Maybe Maggie would be wrong, and the Joker would pop up again here.

Robert had to wonder at the man's audacity. He was a criminal wanted for numerous homicides and millions worth of property damage, and he was strutting around like he owned the city. Robert frowned. Well...he almost did, he reminded himself. The citizens were running scared, and the police were running blind. And he was sitting here, where the Joker had been less than twenty-four hours ago, blinking like a deer caught in headlights.

What happened to his good old investigative intuition? He grimaced and toyed with the water in his hand. It had flown out the window, apparently. For the past few days, he'd been constantly nagged by the feeling that he was missing something. Something big. Something _important_.

"You know," he finally said aloud, putting words to his worries, "sometimes I just think this is some huge puzzle. That everything's interconnected. You know?" he repeated. He looked into Maggie's eyes, seeking some kind of affirmation. "Like this whole thing could be solved by putting all the clues together." He sighed and traced a crack in the counter top as a grin split his face. "We just don't _have_ all the clues yet. Oh, ignore me, I'm babbling." He grinned, embarrassed, and finally looked up, expression suddenly guarded. "So how are things going with...um...you and Os?"

"Aw," said Maggie, patting Robert's hand, "I'm sorry, dear. Maybe you'll get lucky and he'll come back around sometime." She took her hand away from his and picked up her cleaning-cloth, starting to absentmindedly wipe the already-clean bar top with it. "You know," she said, "if you want to get him, you just have to think like he does. And I don't mean all loopy and homicidal." She stopped cleaning the counter, thinking. "You know what you should do?" she asked. "I think you should try getting a team of undercover agents and hitting Gotham's bars after eight o' clock. Don't just limit yourself to here."

Maggie set the cleaning-cloth down, staring at Robert. "Let me tell you a secret," she said. "Maybe it will help you. The Joker has been rumoured to be romantically involved with one of Os' regulars." She glanced over her shoulder to make sure she was not being listened in on, then continued in a lower voice, "I can't give you her name, but I can tell you that the Joker has a daughter, about five years old. Last I heard, the woman he's been seeing was in custody of the child." Maggie leaned forward on the counter, so close to Robert she could see the flecks of colour in his brown eyes. "It's a terrible thought, but if you have his child, then he'll probably do whatever you want him to do. If you can get the little girl away from the woman, then you'll have the Joker's groin in a vice." An adventurous little smile crossed her face. "Get to the girl," she said, "and you'll get to the Joker."

She leaned back away from him, and suddenly a worried expression crossed her face. "Of course, I'm assuming that no one in your unit would hurt the child," she said. "Also, you're just wanting to stop the Joker from killing any more people... you don't intend to hurt or kill him either, do you?" Her once happy smile had faded into a frown. "He's a good person, really," she said, trying to cover. "He just... has no self-control. He's a nice man, at heart... a really caring man. He just made some poor life choices." She stared down at the bar counter. "I would hate to see him get hurt," she said. "I would never forgive myself if... something bad happened to him. Or to the little girl. Or to the woman he was seeing."

Then Maggie looked up at him again. "One big puzzle," she repeated thoughtfully. "You make a very valid point. But remember, every puzzle begins with a single piece." Then she put a hand on her hip and sighed at his question. "Os…" she tried to think of how to word it. She frowned slightly. "One of his old friends came into town," she said. "Grace Balin, and she brought some down-on-his-luck entertainer with her… But that's beside the point." She put the other hand on her hip, her somewhat annoyed focus on the crack in the countertop that Robert had been tracing with his fingertips. "Grace wants me to ask Os about this whole deal," she said. Then she looked up at Robert. "But… I don't want to," she admitted. She shrugged, dropping her hands from her hips. "I'm just afraid that if I ask… I'll be disappointed by the answer."

Maggie sighed, picking up her cleaning-cloth again, and started to clean the moisture from around the base of Robert's glass of water. "He's probably going to keep me waiting forever," she said, her voice disappointed. "I just wish I wasn't so crazy about him... all he's ever done was disappoint me." She looked back up at Robert. "I hope you never have to go through the same thing when you fall in love, one of these days," she told him.

Robert listened with great interest to Maggie's rambling, filing the information away for later use. The bar idea was a valid one, he decided. Might as well ask headquarters to give it a shot, at least for one night. After all, the Joker seemed to have..._certain behaviors_ that led him to pursue that sort of entertainment. And as for his daughter...Robert wasn't sure what to make of that. He'd heard nothing about any sort of relationships or close family in the debriefing. Maybe it was time to pay the downtown station a little visit.

When she got close, his chest tightened with a hopeful twinge (_stop that, Robert_), but she pulled away and he sighed, disappointed (_stop that, Robert!_). "A good...person?" he repeated hesitantly, incredulous. "This man who's killed dozens of people in this city? I just can't see it, Maggie." He paused. "Then again, I guess I've never been as _compassionate_ as you," he admitted, smiling slightly. If only she was a bit more compassionate to _him_ (_STOP THAT, ROBERT!_).

"I don't know what the police plan on doing with him once we find him," he told her honestly; he wouldn't lie to Maggie. "I personally wouldn't kill him. It's not right, no matter who you are." He nodded to himself, and met her eyes. "But I'm not sure if the GCPD shares my sentiments."

He listened carefully and politely to her complaints about Os. To be honest, Robert had never _really_ gotten along with the other caretaker of the Iceberg Lounge. Then again, he was probably just a little bit biased; after all, Kaitlyn seemed to get along fine with the guy. But these woes Maggie was having with him made Robert prickle with dislike. He hesitated, then reached out to squeeze her shoulder. "Don't let it bother you, Mags," he told her with a warm smile. It turned somewhat bitter as he added, "It'd be best to be honest with him, I'd say. Ask him. And if you're disappointed..."

He couldn't help it. "Well, there are other fish in the sea, right?" He looked carefully at the row of bottles lined up on a shelf behind the counter with the same light grin plastered determinedly on his face.

"Well, sure," Maggie said, "when you think about it _that_ way..." She shrugged, picking up Robert's glass, and stowed it behind the counter for future cleaning. "But anyone who thinks of him that way hasn't really met him." She looked up at Robert then, seeming very sure of what she was saying. "He may be a homicidal maniac," she said, "but he's human, just like anyone else. Just like you, and just like me." She smiled at his description of her, and looked down at the few glasses she still had to clean. "Well, I'm not sure if _compassionate_ is quite the word for it," she said, looking back up at him. "I've just met him, on more than one occasion. He seems like a decent person, despite everything he's done."

She listened as he explained to her that he had no interest in killing the Joker, and she nodded, picking up her cloth. "That's good," she said. "I guess... though that little aside about the rest of your department is not reassuring in the least." She moved the cloth to the other hand, thoughtful and somewhat fretful, and then looked back up at Robert. "Most people don't care about whether it's right or wrong," she told him gravely. "Most people only care about what will get them ahead in this world... which is why I'm worried for him." She crossed her arms thoughtfully. "If something were to happen to him," she said, "it would be good for the people who make their money through purely legal means... but what about the others, who don't?"

Maggie held up a hand and began to count down on her fingers. "If the Joker were taken out, then the crime rate would probably drop... policemen would have nothing to do, and therefore they would start cutting jobs. Decent people who make a living doing things that are... _less than legal_..." She hesitated, then went on, "They would be hurt, too. It's people like the Joker that make up most of the business of arms dealing... and other things," she quickly added. She paused, getting back to her main train of thought, then continued, "On top of all that, there's his daughter to consider. What will she do if they take away her daddy and kill him?"

She dropped her hand, having made her point. Then Maggie looked up in surprise when Robert took her shoulder in his large hand, and it took her a moment to regain her composure. "Oh," she said, still a little thrown. "Well... thank you, Robert. The sentiment..." She paused again, then smiled amiably at him. "The sentiment is appreciated," she said, nodding to show her candour. Then she smiled. "Yes," she said with a chuckle. "I suppose there are other fish in the sea, aren't there?" She picked up her cleaning-cloth again, hesitated, and then said, "I hear Harvey Dent is still single."

. . .

Kaitlyn finally woke up to the sound of rain.

She frowned and pulled herself out of bed. On her way out her bedroom door, she tripped over her pillow. She stared at it for a long moment, then shrugged and went into the kitchen.

A steaming cup of very tan coffee had her in a much better mood by the time she sat down at the card table she used in her kitchen. She spread the Joker file she'd borrowed from central out in front of her and leaned over it, beginning to put the facts together.

The killings. Her fingers flipped automatically through the papers in front of her until she found the stats sheet. They made no sense; there was no pattern, which was typical of mass murderers. Besides the anonymous bodies found in the Narrows, they had only two names: Jessica Fox, administrator of Arkham Asylum; and Jervis Tetch, employee of Wayne Enterprises, beheaded, according to this morning's paper.

And this most recent one, the paper boy. She shuffled the files again. The analysts at central were looking for possible numbers the Joker may have called based on the blood, but there were just too many posssibilities. And then there was that newspaper! She reached into the stack of bills and papers next to the table and got yesterday's issue. What was so damn interesting about some stupid paper to the _Joker_? It was driving her absolutely nuts.

She looked at the headline article: some more garbage about how awful the police were. She checked the author, scowling at his oh-so-serious expression. Thomas Hale. Probably wouldn't be so fucking cocky about law enforcement if he knew more about it. But _no_, this guy only had eyes for the _Joker_, and how _special_ he was. She threw the paper away in disgust.

A sudden realization struck her like electricity. She scrabbled for tyhe discarded paper and looked at Hale's picture again. How did this guy, some nobody journalist, have so much information about the Joker? Just that morning, he'd tipped the GCPD off to Tetch's recent murder. Wasn't it reasonable to think he had some sort of a connection to the Joker?

She pulled out her cell phone and speed-dialed Robert.

. . .

Robert now felt vaguely uncomfortable about his role in the Joker case. Maybe Maggie was right; maybe the Joker was just an honest guy caught in a horrible situation.

And, of course, he sunk further at her flippant comment. "I thought Dent was still with that Dawes girl," he said. "The attorney. They..." He was interrupted by his cell phone going off. He exhaled loudly and with a rueful grin when he saw who it was.

He stood waving the phone. "The lady calls. I'm sorry, I've got to take this." Moving a few steps away from the bar, he said into the phone, "What, you finally decided to get up?"

Kaitlyn ignored his teasing. "Thomas Hale. You heard of him?"

His eyebrows shot up. "Actually, yes, I was just talking to Maggie and he might have a connection to the Joker."

Kaitlyn hung up immediately.

Robert looked at the phone for a minute, then shrugged and tucked it away with a grin. "Who knows what that was all about?" he joked to Maggie as he returned to the bar, taking his previous seat. "It was Kaitlyn," he explained, "asking about this Thomas guy you were just telling me about." He looked off into space for a long moment, then shrugged it off. "Maybe she'll find something. Then again, knowing Kaitlyn, maybe not." He laughed.

Maggie laughed, shaking her head, and put her hand on her hip. "Oh, dear, Robert," she said, amused. "You are a doll. I was only joking with you about Harvey Dent." She patted his hand reassuringly. Then she looked up in interest when Robert got his phone call. "Of course," she said with an understanding smile and a nod, retracting her hand. She instantly started cleaning the glass he had used, trying her hardest not to listen in on the conversation, but when she heard her name, it piqued her interest, and she looked up. She heard Robert mention something about a man having a connection to the Joker... it could be anyone, really, Maggie told herself. Everyone in Gotham seemed to have some connection to someone else, so who knew?

She looked back up at Robert when he seated himself on the barstool again, and offered him an amiable smile. "She seems like such a charming girl," she said, with a hint of sarcasm in her tone. She chuckled; she knew Kaitlyn, and had no problem with the girl. She just liked giving Robert a hard time, to see the looks on his face. He was kind-of cute, Maggie had to admit, but he just was not the man for her. "Why in the world don't you try to pursue some kind of, well..." She paused in her cleaning, trying to find the word. "Well, _something,_" she finally surrendered, "with her?" She shrugged, friendly, and went back to cleaning the glass.

"Thomas," she said then, thoughtful. "Thomas Hale? The reporter?" She bit her lip, thinking. "Well," she said in a low voice, "you didn't hear it from me..." She glanced over her shoulder, then leaned forward towards Robert. "He and the Joker met once before," she said. "They were here, in the Iceberg. The Joker went upstairs to play cards with Os and some other associates. They didn't really interact much." She paused, thinking about it. "I remember, specifically," she said, with extra emphasis, "because that was the night that there was the big confrontation between the Joker and his lady-friend. Then, the next morning, there had been that big article about the Joker in the paper..."

Maggie looked away, contemplative, then shrugged and went back to cleaning her glass. "Well, it doesn't matter," she said. "He isn't hurting anybody, and as long as he isn't helping the Joker to kill anyone, I don't see why he should be bothered." She smiled at Robert again, setting down the clean glass. "What do you think?" she asked.

Robert had to laugh at the thought of being in a relationship with Kaitlyn. Then he went back to being serious. "In all honesty, Mags..." He took a breath, then let it out as a laugh. "I always have had a thing for Fu...Kaitlyn. She didn't stand long for that, though." He chuckled again, shaking his head. He'd professed his undying love for his childhood friend their first day of high school; she'd socked him in the jaw and told him to grow a pair. He'd been made fun of for nearly a week before Kaitlyn issued _another_ few socks to the jaw.

"But as for this Hale fellow, I honestly have no idea," Robert said, turning back to business. "Knowing Kaitlyn, it could be a totally empty lead. But heck, maybe she's found something." He stared at the ice in his glass, contemplative. "She sure sounded excited on the phone. We pull people in for information sometimes; that could make or break the case."

He glanced back up at Maggie, then saluted. "Well, thank you _so_ much for the time and the insights, Mags, but I've gotta jet," he said, backpedaling smoothly towards the door. "Got to keep looking into that lead. Maybe something new has turned up." He shrugged, half-hopeful, then walked out the door.

. . .

Thomas awoke to a splitting headache and a fuzzy taste in his mouth.

Only one thing _that_ ever meant.

He rolled out of bed, intending to nurse his apparent hangover with some black coffee or a cold shower, but his plans were interrupted by a sharp rap on his door. He ignored it, heading to the kitchen. No coffee. Of course. As he headed past the front door, there was another knock. "COMING," he told it irritably, a moment before the door was kicked in.

A redhead woman, older than him and looking quite pleased with herself, was pointing a gun at his head. "Don't move," she instructed him, keeping the gun aimed at him while she glanced around the apartment. He stumbled back a step, affronted. Who did this chick think she was?

"Liss'n, I don't know who the fuck y'think you..." His half-slurred tirade was interrupted by the woman shoving a badge in his face. He squinted to make out the cramped typing: "Special Forces: Gotham Department." He frowned. What the hell did that mean? He hadn't heard of any fucking _special forces_ in Gotham City, or anywhere else, for that matter. He was about to ask her when she spoke up again.

"Thomas Hale?" She didn't wait for his response, but cuffed his hands immediately. "I'm going to have to take you in for some questioning."

He struggled, of course, like any sane person would. For some reason, and Thomas blamed the hangover for this, the woman was able to subdue him easily enough and cart him out the front door, yelling and fighting all the way.

. . .

The air was crisp and cool against their faces as they walked down the street, hands in their pockets, not saying a word to each other. Napier scanned the buildings, frowning slightly. This part of town was strangely familiar, for some reason, but he could not quite place why. "Hey Julio," he said. "Where are we?"

Julio glanced over at him, curious. "We're on the South side of Gotham," he answered. "The real quiet part of town. People say only middle-class and poor people live here…" He shrugged. "Whatever, man," he said. "It's far from the Narrows, so there's not a lot of crime here. They wouldn't have much to steal, anyways…" He pointed to one of the apartment complexes. "You see that?" he asked. "There's somebody new living in that apartment every month or so. They just keep coming and going, like a revolving door." Then he pointed to a side alley. "I've seen people dealing drugs over there," he said. "Not for a while, but… there used to be some dealers who would hang around here, selling shit."

Napier nodded, then pointed to an apartment complex across the street. "That's where we used to live," he said. "Kitty and me. We lived on the second floor." He folded his arms, frowning. "We didn't have an elevator," he said in a nostalgic voice, mostly to himself. He shook his head, thinking about it. "It was hell going up those stairs when I'd been drinking."

They stopped in front of a bench that had once been part of a bus stop, until the buses in Gotham had stopped running, and sat down, staring in silence at the apartment Napier had indicated. Then Julio looked over at Napier, tentatively curious. "So, uh… you got kids, huh, ese?" he asked.

Napier hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah," he said. "I have a little girl… Jeannie Rose."

Julio nodded, too. "That's a nice name, man," he said, looking away.

Napier sighed. "It is, isn't it?" he agreed, only half-paying attention.

There was a moment of silence. Then Julio looked back over at Napier. "Where is she?" she asked. "Jeannie Rose."

Napier stared ahead for a long moment, trying to think of what to say. Then he took a deep breath. "She's with an… acquaintance," he said. He cleared his throat.

"An acquaintance?" asked Julio. He stared at Napier, incredulous. "She's not with her mother?"

Napier raised his eyebrows, shaking his head. "Nope," he answered. He turned and looked at Julio, a strange expression on his face. "Her mother was kidnapped by someone I've been at odds with for a long time."

"Oh," said Julio, sounding as if he knew exactly what Napier was talking about. He paused. "Your ex-wife?"

Napier looked over at Julio, incredulous. "Um," he said, "no."

Julio looked away, shrugging. "Hey, man," he said, "it's totally possible."

"Jeannie Rose's mother was the only wife I ever had," Napier said, looking away from Julio and touching the tips of his fingers together thoughtfully. "And we didn't even get to be married for very long. She, um…" He cleared his throat again, thinking about it. "We got separated… about five years ago." He looked down at his hands. "I, uh… I didn't even know she and Jeannie Rose were still alive until a few days ago."

Julio frowned a bit, confused. "How does that work?" he asked.

Napier shrugged. "It's a long story," he answered. Then he let out a bitter huff of breath. "I'm still not really sure about Kitty," he admitted. "Everyone keeps running me in circles about her… she's dead, then she's alive, then she's dead again…" He shook his head, staring at his hands. "I just don't know anymore," he said in a low voice.

Julio watched him for a long moment, then took a breath and asked, "Hey, _ese_… how'd you get them scars?"

Napier stared at his hands for a long time. Then he looked up at the apartment complex across the street. "It's not really as interesting as you might think," he told Julio, a hint of what could be called melancholy in his voice. Then he shrugged. "But I guess I should start from the beginning," he said.

Napier leaned back on the bench, resting his folded hands on his ribcage, and let out a deep breath, considering where to begin in his story. "My father," he said, "was… a drinker. And, being the son of a drinker, I had a natural inclination to follow that same unfortunate path in life. I dropped out of high school, wasn't smart enough to stay in… and then, when I got older, I started to slowly unravel, going down the same path my father did." He paused a moment. "And then I met Kitty."

He looked over at Julio. "Kitty turned my whole outlook on life around," he said. "She was… god, I don't even know how to describe it. Kitty was like the one ray of sunlight on a rainy day… she took all the gloominess and made rainbows out of it." He smiled faintly, shaking his head as he thought about it. "Well, I fell in love with Kitty, and, after some hard work, I got her to fall for me, too… We got married, and I was the happiest man in the world." He paused, swallowing, as his story began to slow down. "But I still had a drinking problem," he admitted. "I was… only twenty-two years old, and I could barely stay sober. Then Kitty comes to me one day and tells me she's pregnant… and she shows me the test, which said positive." He looked over at Julio. "And I swore to her that I'd stop drinking, once and for all, for her and for our baby."

Napier looked back over at the apartment building across the street. "I joined Alcoholics Anonymous," he said, "and that's where I met Gerald… he was one of the only people who was ever really nice to me in this world. I… don't know if I'd still be here if it wasn't for Gerald." He glanced over at Julio. "I'd considered taking my life, before," he said. "And I've considered it lately, too… but then I think of Gerald." He hesitated, and then turned back to the apartment building, wetting his lips thoughtfully. "Well, eight months into the program and Kitty's pregnancy, I was doing great. I was reformed, and I'd never felt better in my entire life. I felt like a whole new person, but… the only problem was, I couldn't find a job."

He glanced over at Julio again. "No one wanted to employ a nearly homeless, uneducated, unintelligent giant. I was completely unemployable… one of Gotham's unwanted. I didn't know what to do… I had been taking whatever odd jobs I could to try to pay for Kitty's medical bills and support us, but it just wasn't enough." He stared ahead, then looked down at his folded hands, frowning. "Then one day, these guys come up to me… they say they've been watching me for a while, and they thought I'd be a good person to work for them. They invite me to the bar to talk over the business proposition with me. I went along, because I needed that job… and they started buying me drinks. 'Just one drink won't hurt you,' they told me…"

Napier shrugged, embarrassed. "Well, one drink turned into two, and two turned into several, and soon I was too drunk to know what they were asking me to do, so I agreed to it, not even knowing what I just agreed to." He paused a moment, trying to collect himself, and sighed. "I got home, somehow… and when I got there, I came in, and I told Kitty, 'Honey, I have a job!'… but she wasn't interested in the job." He stared at his folded hands, frowning deeply. "She took one look at me, and she started to cry. …I'd never seen her cry before. It was…" He shook his head, lost for words. "It was frightening," he admitted in a low voice, looking over at Julio. "Strong, sure Kitty, my rock, the person I leaned on when I was feeling weak… was sitting there, crying her eyes out."

Napier swallowed, then continued his story. "I had no idea what to do," he admitted. "And then she started to scream at me. 'All our hard work, all those months of torture, wasted! Look at you, look at what you've done!' Well, that didn't seem fair… she wasn't the one who got the shivers at night, who had spent weeks throwing up and hallucinating, had wanted to scratch her own eyes out to make the torture go away. It was all me." Napier looked over at Julio. "I got angry at her. I probably shouldn't have, but… it just didn't seem fair that she would totally ignore the fact that I got a job and just concentrate on the fact that I was a little tipsy." He paused, then corrected himself, "All right, I was more than just a little tipsy, but… it still didn't seem fair, at the time."

He raised his eyebrows, his dark eyes straying. "And that's when we started to argue. I said, 'Why can't you just appreciate what I've done well, Kitty, without pointing out what I did wrong?' And she said, 'Wrong? You just laid to waste eight months of hard work – eight months!' And then she pulled the card that made me flip the fuck out on her… 'I don't know why I stay with you, Jack… I could be happier with someone else!' And I screamed at her… 'You've been cheating on me, haven't you, you whore? If you've been cheating on me, I'll know! I will know, and I will fucking kill you!'" He shook his head. "I shouldn't have said that," he mumbled. "But I did… I didn't mean it, but…"

Napier let out a breath, staring at his hands, then went on, "Then she said to me, 'Me, cheating on you? How many times have you cheated on me, while you were drunk?' I told her, 'I would never cheat on you!' …And then she pulled her ace. 'You also said you'd never drink again,' she told me… 'And look at you!'." He shook his head. "That was the final straw," he said. "I was angry, and hurt, and drunk out of my mind… and I…" He paused, lifting a hand, and stared at it, as if surprised that he still remembered that it had been that one. "I… struck her," he said, "across the face."

He stared at his hand as if it were an entirely different entity altogether, his expression distant, his brow furrowed. "She fell to the ground…" His voice trailed off, and he shook his head, putting his head in his hands, and just breathed for a moment. Then he started again, "And that was about the time the cops came. Apparently, one of our neighbours heard us screaming at one another and called the GPD down… I was so scared of the cops actually coming that I just lost it… I started screaming at them, and trying to get away… they eventually pinned me, and cuffed me, and dragged me off to jail." He paused for a long moment, just thinking. "Drunk and disorderly," he said, shaking his head. "That's what they charged me as. Also, I had a pending domestic violence suit against me, depending on which way Kitty decided to go on the matter… thankfully, she decided not to press charges."

Napier rubbed his eyes, then sniffed and cleared his throat. "Well, they let me go. They had to, since Kitty didn't press any charges against me… and I went to work. Turns out the work they had me doing was hauling boxes of smuggled drugs for Carmine Falcone, down at the docks in the Narrows. They needed big, dumb guys for the job, and they found a couple of us to do it, me and a couple of big black guys… I don't really remember their names, but I think it was something like…" He paused, wetting his lips. "Tyrone, maybe, and, uh… Waylon? Waylon Jones. They looked like they knew what they were doing, but I was just a novice." He paused. "But that didn't last long."

Napier folded his hands together, resting his elbows on his knees, and said, "I eventually started stealing drugs from the boxes, to sell on the side… make a little money for myself other than what I was getting hauling the boxes for Falcone. Kitty didn't have to know, one way or another… and then I started using the drugs, just a little at a time…" He shrugged. "It took my mind off of drinking," he said, looking over at Julio. "When I took the drugs, even just a small bit, I didn't think about drinking… at all. It was…" He let out a huff of breath and raised his eyebrows, as if recalling something phenomenal. "Miraculous," he said. "Kitty thought I had gotten off drinking entirely, and there were no withdrawal symptoms… we were finally happy."

He took a breath, then went on, "Well, one day, I was working at the docks when somebody comes and tells me that my house was on fire. I rushed home as soon as I could, but there was really nothing left…" He held his hands out, palms-up, and shrugged. "The police saw me there, and instantly they took me in for questioning. I had that mark against me, and my neighbour had heard me saying I was going to kill Kitty, so they thought I had started the fire to kill her." He shook his head. "They asked me where I'd been, but… I couldn't tell them I'd been at the docks helping to traffic drugs for the city's biggest crime boss. So I was held in jail for a while, until they realized that they couldn't pin the case on me…"

Napier paused again, looking determinedly ahead at the apartment building, trying to keep his breathing steady. "So they let me out of prison," he said, clenching his teeth to keep his voice from shaking. "And… the first thing they tell me is…" He bit his lip, looking down at his hands, and then said, "The first thing they tell me is that… Kitty didn't make it." He swallowed, shaking his head. "Kitty and the baby didn't survive the fire. I… wasn't being charged with their murder, but…" He put his face in his hand, trying to steady himself, taking deep, settling breaths. Then he cleared his throat and shook his head, wiping the start of tears from one of his eyes. "I, uh… I couldn't take it." He sniffed. "I had no motivation to live, if I couldn't be with Kitty. She… made my miserable life worth fighting for. And now…"

He slowly shook his head, thinking. "So I went out and tried to kill myself," he said. "I tried to… OD on all kinds of drugs… pain killers, anti-depressants, even cough syrup… and when that didn't work, I started trying illegal drugs." He shrugged. "Still no luck," he said. "Then I decided that I would drink myself to death… plain and simple. A .4 BAL is death, so I thought I'd go out and do that… but I didn't have the time to do it." He looked over at Julio. "I went to some seedy bar and got completely smashed… and then this guy decides he wants to pick a fight with me. Well, I was in no fit state to brawl… I could barely stand, let alone trade punches with some big guy. So I fight him, hoping against hope that he'll kill me…" He looked away again. "Instead, he beats me bloody and then drags out this knife and slices my face open like this. Then he leaves me lying there, bleeding…"

Napier looked down at his hands, folded in his lap. "Well, that's just perfect with me… I was fucked over anyways, so what did some facial deformity matter? I mean, really… what did I have to lose?" He wet his lips again, thinking. "Then I… dragged myself back into the bar, laughing like a maniac… and somebody called up the GPD again. But this time, they didn't take me to jail…" He hesitated, then said, "This time… they took me straight to Arkham." He paused, feeling his heart start to beat faster, a lump rising in his throat. "I was so mad at them, at myself, at everyone and everything… I just wanted to die, but somebody was having way too much fun fucking with me to just let me die." He shook his head, his jaw starting to tremble slightly. "I didn't want to be alive if Kitty was dead…" he said. "I… didn't want to live… without… Kitty."

He put his face in his hands, silently sobbing into them as he reached the emotional peak of his story. "But she was _alive,_" he moaned. "She was alive… and my daughter, she was alive, too…" His strong shoulders shook as he sobbed into his hands. "And now they're both gone… everything is gone, all over again… I have no idea where Kitty is, and… I'm not suitable to be a father for my little girl…" He took a deep breath, trying to settle himself, and then broke down again, turning away from Julio as his sturdy frame was wracked with sobs.

"God, what have I done?" he choked, not even trying to hold back the tears now.

Julio stared at the ground, unsure of what to say. He had almost been brought to tears by Napier's story, as well, and he swallowed hard before looking over at Napier. "That's harsh, man," he said in the most sympathetic voice he could. He looked away again, taking a deep breath. "Well, you could always try to mend bridges with your daughter…" He shrugged. "I mean, you seem like a good guy… You just did some stupid shit, man."

Napier cleared his throat, trying to wipe tears from his eyes, and shook his head. "There's no way," he said. "I could never face her again, or Jeanette… not after what I did."

"What'd you do, ese?" Julio asked. "You, like, hit her or something?" Napier turned and looked at Julio for a long moment, silent. Julio raised his eyebrows. "Oh," he said. "Yeah, that's pretty bad, man." He folded his arms, looking over at Napier with a somewhat reproachful look. "You gotta lay off hittin' your women, man," he told him. "They don't take kindly to that, _ese_."

"I didn't _mean_ to hit her," Napier argued. "I was –"

"Drunk?" Julio guessed.

"Yeah," admitted Napier, embarrassed.

"You, like, constantly drunk or something, man?" Julio asked, incredulous.

"No," Napier said, getting defensive. "Not _constantly._"

"You're a wino, man," Julio said. "You need to clean up your act or something, _ese._ Then maybe your daughter will forgive you."

"I'm not a wino," Napier argued.

"Oh, right," said Julio, shrugging and looking away. "'Scuse me. You're just a homeless drunk."

"I'm not a drunk," Napier said, frowning and turning to look at Julio. "And I'm not homeless."

"Coulda fooled me," replied Julio, glancing back over at him.

"Don't mess with me, _essay,_" Napier said, mimicking Julio's linguistics. "Or, should I say, _paragraph._"

Julio paused for a moment, not quite sure he had heard what he thought he had. Then he turned to Napier. "Did you just call me 'paragraph', man?" Julio asked, frowning and slitting his eyes in incredulous disbelief.

Napier shrugged. "You call me 'essay'," he said. "A paragraph is shorter than an essay."

"What… so it was a short joke, was it?" Julio asked, annoyed.

"Uh… yeah," answered Napier.

"You just called me 'paragraph'," Julio said, looking over at him. "I'm gonna fuckin' kill you, man."

"Oh, yeah?" said Napier. "What are you gonna do, shank my kneecaps?"

"Hey, don't mess with me, man," Julio warned. "I'm _loco._ You don't know where I been, _ese._"

"There you go again, calling me 'essay'," Napier said, indicating him.

"No… I call you '_ese_', man," said Julio. "It's Mexican slang. It's like saying 'dude'. Only… not."

Napier stared at him, not quite comprehending. Then he shrugged and turned away again. "I'll take your word for it," he said with a sigh, folding his arms over his chest.

Julio shrugged as well, turning back to look at the apartment complex. There was a long moment of silence. Then he said, "You really should apologize to your daughter, man." He looked over at Napier. "Do you really want her to remember you as that big ugly drunk guy who hit her?"

Napier shook his head, thoughtful. "No," he said. "I don't want her to remember me that way." He paused, and then looked over at Julio, incredulous. "Did you just call me 'ugly'?" he asked.

Julio looked over at him, raising his eyebrows. "Hey, man," he said. "You started it."


	58. Chapter FiftySeven

Wayne held up his dress shirt, looking at himself in the mirror. He frowned, then held up the other one, trying to see if it looked better. He wanted to look as good as possible for Jessica's funeral, since he would be seeing Fox for the first time since Fox walked out on him, announcing his furious resignation from WayneTech. Since Fox quit, WayneTech had ground to a halt, and it had been greatly hindering Wayne's excursions as Batman. If he were to injure the Bat suit in any way, he would not be able to fix it without Fox's help, and the masked vigilante would come to an end.

"Hey, Alfred," Wayne called, holding up the other shirt and looking at himself in the mirror in it. "Could you help me pick out a shirt for the funeral?"

"Are there too many for you to choose from, Master Wayne?" asked Alfred, buttoning up his own suit-jacket as he came into the room. He looked between the two dress-shirts, then indicated the one on the left. "That one, Sir," he said. "It's more dressy, less formal."

"Thanks, Alfred," said Wayne, slipping the dress-shirt on and starting to button it. There was a long moment of silence. Then Wayne looked up at Alfred. "You and Jessica were friends, weren't you?" he asked.

Alfred took a breath, then nodded. "Indeed, we were," he said. "Jessica… she was like a sister to me. And not in that obnoxious new-fangled slang way, either."

"I assumed as much," replied Wayne, fooling with the buttons of his dress-shirt.

Alfred sighed, folding his hands in front of him as he watched Wayne finishing buttoning up his dress-shirt. "She was always such a dear… she knew all about my relationship with her brother, and she was perfectly fine with it." He frowned slightly. "She never really wanted to be in a relationship, though," he said, thoughtful. "She was happy the way she was, and that was part of what was so wonderful about her."

Wayne looked at his feet as he picked up his suit-jacket and slipped it on. "I'm sorry, Alfred," he said, buttoning it up.

Alfred looked up at Wayne, and an understanding smile appeared on his face. "It's not your fault, Sir," he said. He paused. "Though I wouldn't mind one bit if you were to teach that Joker bloke a lesson or two," he added as an afterthought.

Wayne nodded, then glanced over his shoulder, out the window. "It's nice weather outside," he commented.

"Indeed," agreed Alfred. "Grey and gloomy as always… in fact, they say there's a chance of rain a little later on, today. Perfect weather for a funeral."

Wayne looked over at him, half-grinning incredulously. "Hopefully it won't rain _too_ hard," he said. "I would hate to get my new suit wet."

"Oh, don't worry, Sir," Alfred assured him, "I'll be bringing a large black umbrella, cinema-style."

Wayne chuckled, shaking his head. "You always know just what to say, don't you, Alfred?" he asked, smiling at his butler.

Alfred smiled back at him, friendly. "I do try, Sir," he said.

Wayne checked his Rolex, then raised his eyebrows and sighed. "The viewing is in about an hour," he said, looking up at Alfred. "We should start heading down there… we want to be there in plenty of time, to get a good parking space, if nothing else."

Alfred grinned half-heartedly and nodded in agreement. "Indeed, Master Wayne," he said.

. . .

Dent checked his appearance in the windows of the Police Department before going inside and walking instantly over to Gordon's desk. He put his hands on the edge of the desk, antsy. "You called me, Gordon?" he asked, his voice clipped and impatient.

Gordon looked up from his paperwork, seeming surprised, and then his expression turned to one of professionalism when he saw Dent standing there. "I did," he answered, stacking his papers together and setting them aside on his desk for later. "Our patrol unit picked up someone I think you'll be very interested to see last night," he told Dent. He stood from his chair and indicated for Dent to follow him, which Dent did.

"Who is it, Gordon?" he asked, edgy. "Is it Crane? Is it the Joker?"

"It's neither Crane nor the Joker," Gordon told him, his voice patient and slow. He pushed open the doors that led back to the holding pens. "But it is someone we've been on the lookout for almost as long as the others." Gordon led Dent over to one of the holding pens and let him look inside. He stood to the side, his hands folded in front of him, proud of his unit's work. "She was a hard one to find," he said. "But apparently they took her down easy, once they did find her… she was on drugs of some sort at the time, according to the report."

Dent frowned as he looked into the pen, then turned to Gordon. "So?" he asked. "What is it, some drugged-up punk you picked up off the street, Gordon?" He scoffed, folding his arms. "We've got priorities in the mob, what with the Rossini and Meroni families both vying to take the spot that became vacant when Falcone was taken out… then the Joker and Crane are still on the loose… and you called me up here to oversee the capture of some punk girl?"

"She's not just _some punk girl,_" Gordon argued, annoyed. He turned to the pen and rapped on the bars of the cell where the young arsonist the GPD had picked up the night before had been locked up. "Miss Fisher," he called into the pen, hoping to wake her up. He turned back to Dent. "We got fingerprints, and they matched to a Carly Fisher. The report says her brother killed himself in a fire he set. We aren't sure if it was suicide, or if it was arson, and he just got stuck in his own destruction."

Dent looked back at the girl in the cell, still looking unimpressed. "So, what are you holding her for?" he asked.

"Arson," answered Gordon simply. "She got caught torching some old houses. That's property owned by the city of Gotham, so she was arrested for destruction of government property."

"She doesn't sound like the brightest bulb in the chandelier," said Dent, looking smug, as he looked back at the girl in the cell. "What makes you think she's going to confess?"

"We don't want her to confess," Gordon said, turning back to Dent. "She's a low-priority threat." He turned back to the cell, looking at the girl inside. "No," he said, thoughtful, "what I'm hoping to do is get her to talk. Maybe, if we cut her a deal that includes some time in rehab, she'll tell us about one or more of the others we're trying to find." He looked back over at Dent. "She's our best bet, at the moment," he said.

"So, you want me to get her to talk to you?" asked Dent.

Gordon shook his head. "I want Rachel," he said.

Dent smirked. "A little feminine charm?" he asked, sarcastic. "Some _girl talk_?"

Gordon raised an eyebrow at him, unamused. "No," he answered simply, turning back to look at the girl in the pen. "She's just better at it."

"Awwwww, shit."

Flick jerked awake with a groan and immediately fell off the small cot she'd apparently fallen asleep on. She sat up quickly, dazed and very confused, and took inventory. Her head ached fiercely; some of that had to be due to falling out of bed, she supposed, but hazy memories of popping little paper tabs into her mouth all last night could also have something to do with it. Her butt was bruised (again, from her fall), but she felt sore, especially on her right side. She hesitated, then lifted up her shirt. No mark. Must've been a taser.

She sighed, somewhat comforted, and lifted herself up carefully to view her surroundings. She was in some sort of holding cell. She scowled when she noticed two men watching her from outside the cell and talking quietly. It took her almost a full minute to recognize Officer Gordon and Harvey Dent, the great saviors of Gotham. She rolled her eyes and promptly went back to inspecting her pen, ignoring them.

How had she been so _stupid_? She could have banged her head against the wall, she was so angry at herself. Taking drugs may not have been the best idea in the world, but going to set fires right afterward...that was just plain dumb. She kneaded her forehead with her fists, then glanced up at Gordon and Dent again. Maybe she could talk her way out of this. Hell, who knew? "Hey, 'sup?" she said, nonchalant. She went to the bars again and rested her head between two of them.

"So, what's the deal, fellas?" she asked. Playing dumb. She was such a fucking _genius_. She threw in a winning smile for effect. "What's going on? I do something...wrong?" She tilted her head to the side innocently.

Then, suddenly, she thought of Crane. He'd kill her if he knew what she'd done. She winced, then a brazen grin stretched across her chapped lips. Hell, what could he do about it? She'd whip his ass if he tried to do anything, and besides, she was in _here_ and he was out _there_. It's not like he'd care anyways, what she did with her free time. He was all happy and whatnot screwing around (literally _and_ figuratively) with Kitty.

Dent instantly turned on the girl. "Don't act dumb with us," he snapped, pointing accusingly at her. "You know exactly what you did."

"Harvey..." Gordon said patiently, holding up a hand. Then he turned to Flicker, tolerant and humane. "We found you setting fires to government property," he informed her patiently. "We took you into custody for breaking the law. You're currently in the Gotham holding cells." He glanced back at Harvey, then looked at Flicker again. "So," he said, folding his arms. "Why were you setting fire to those buildings in the first place, Miss?"

"She was setting fire because she was high off her rocker," Dent said, putting his hands on his hips. He turned back to Flicker. "Just tell us what you know about the Crane and Joker cases," he demanded. "Then we might consider letting you go, on certain conditions."

"Harvey," Gordon was losing patience. He looked at Flicker again. "We can see if we can cut you some kind of deal to get you out of here," he told her. "But we really need for you to cooperate with our investigation. It's vital that we catch Crane and the Joker." He frowned slightly at this thought. "I know you don't really want to work with us," he said. "But it would be best for everyone if you did."

"If you're working with one of them," Dent cut over Gordon, pointing accusingly at Flicker again, "they're not going to put up with you, for getting caught by the GPD. If you refuse to cooperate with us, the only thing you're looking at is a nice long stint in County."

"But if you cooperate," said Gordon, raising his voice to cut over Dent, "then you won't have to worry about that." He offered her a hopeful smile. "What do you say?" he asked. "Are you willing to help us with this investigation?"

Flicker squinted, unimpressed, at Dent and his accusing finger. It was obvious he didn't have much practice in interrogation. She yawned in his face, dropping her sweet, innocent act, and flapped away his words. "County," she informed him, "doesn't scare me, hon." It was absolute bullshit, but the D.A. didn't need to know that. She sized him up quickly and with a grin. "Hey, you _do_ look better on the tube." She nodded to him, then turned to Gordon, who appeared much more appealing to talk to at the moment.

"Why does _anyone_ set a fire?" she asked in a deep, contemplative tone. A heartbeat later, she snickered. "To watch shit burn," she answered her own question, humming a bar or two of "We Didn't Start the Fire." When she lost interest in this, she swung away from the bars again, pacing the enclosed space like a testy cat in a cage. She turned to Dent with a fierce scowl, annoyed by his assumptions. I wasn't fuckin' 'high off my rocker'," she spat, sitting down on the cot and leaning her head back against the wall behind her. "Prick."

"Doesn't scare...?" Dent turned away from the cell, disgusted. Then he turned back again. "You're just trying to get on my nerves, aren't you?" he snapped into the pen at Flicker. "Just trying to get my blood pressure up." He scoffed at her. "Well, it isn't working, _little missy,_" he told her, folding his arms with a smug look. "And I'm the one who determines what happens to you, so you better mind yourself."

"Harvey, she's just being testy," said Gordon patiently, holding up a hand. "The more you try to talk down to her, the more she's going to fight you." He looked back over at Flicker, then. "And you," he said in a fatherly tone, "don't be disrespectful. This is your DA you're talking to. Even if you don't agree with him, he's still an important elected official."

She smiled indulgently like a parent to a child at Gordon's offer. Like she needed a bribe to talk; she'd _sing_ about Crane and his fucked-up little operation if Gordon said the word. But maybe it would be more fun to toy with these people first. It wasn't like anything bad could happen. She was still on top of the _world_. "Naw, why should I?" she asked flippantly, flapping a hand at him as if to brush aside stale air. "Besides, _that one_ over there -" she jabbed her thumb towards Dent without looking at him - "is giving me a headache."

Gordon folded his arms. "You should," he said, his tone one of level-headed reason, "because it will be better for all of us."

"You should because if you don't, we'll lock you up for good, d'you hear?" Dent interjected. "Crane and the Joker will be the least of your worries. As long as you're here, they can't hurt you. But as soon as we send you over to County, there's nothing either of us can do to stop them from tearing you limb from limb – or worse." He smirked, a cruel glint in his eye. "We don't have a women's sector in County," he told her. "Down there, everybody's all one big happy family."

"Miss Fisher," said Gordon, starting to get annoyed, himself, with Harvey's overly aggressive manner, "we don't want to make you do anything you don't want to do, and we aren't trying to put words in your mouth." He shrugged. "We just want to help you." Gordon stared in at the girl in the pen, then sighed and checked his watch. "Look, I'm not an expert at this kind of thing," he said, "but I had one of my men call in someone who is, and she should be here in a few minutes." He pulled a set of handcuffs from his belt, followed by the keys to Flicker's cell. He motioned for her to slip her hands through the slot in the door, and he cuffed her wrists. Then he unlocked the door and took Flicker by the arm, leading her out of the pen.

Dent looked on in disbelief. "You're letting her go, Gordon?" he asked, incredulous. "After all of that, you're just going to let her free?"

"No," Gordon answered. "I'm taking her to the interrogation room. I'm thinking we'll probably get more answers out of her there." He opened a side door and led Flicker down a long, dimly-lit hallway, until he reached a heavy, white door, which he pulled open with a loud buzzing sound. Rachel sat in one of the chairs in the room, and she turned as soon as she heard the door open.

"Well, well," she said with a friendly smile at Flicker as Gordon led her over to the chair opposite Rachel and seated her in it. Rachel watched as Gordon left the room, and winked at him reassuringly. Then she turned back to Flicker, folding her hands on the table as she leaned forward towards the girl and offered her an amiable grin. "When Gordon told me I'd be interrogating someone who was caught setting fires, I didn't think I'd be talking to someone like _you,_" she told her with a friendly chuckle.

Rachel moved her chair closer to the desk, staring intently at Flicker. "So," she said, "I hear you might have been involved in either the Crane or the Joker case." She raised her eyebrows, intrigued. "Is there anything you'd like to tell me about either of those?" she asked. Then she indicated her hair. "I like this style you've got going on," she complimented her. "I wanted to cut my hair short, once... but it wouldn't have looked any good on me." She offered Flicker another friendly smile, then asked with a hopeful shrug, "Crane and the Joker... Yes, no... maybe?"

Flick scowled at what she was reasonably sure was a two-way mirror, envisioning Dent and Gordon's faces behind it. Dent was great to toy with. Gordon, maybe even more so; he was one of those "don't lose your cool" guys that the police toted around like idols. He'd be fun to crack.

But this chick. This chick...was just _annoying_.

Flicker let her babble for a minute, some friendly nonsense that was going to get her nowhere. Then she leaned forward in her chair. "Listen, I know what you're going for, with all this..." She twirled her fingers to accentuate her words. "Good-cop shit. It's cute. Seriously. But not _really_ gonna work." She leaned back again and glanced off to the side, towards the mirror again. She sighed.

"I didn't really want to say this in front of your _friends_, over there," she began, making the assumption that Dent and Gordon were indeed behind the mirror, "but you've got to man up. Y'know. Either magically grow a pair, or you're going to be taken as a joke for the rest of your career. Dawes, right?" Flick had heard her name at some bar on a TV clip. Attorney. Smart cookie, apparently. Not that Flick had any real idea what _that_ meant. "I've heard a lot about you. Used to be Wayne's 'close friend', then you swapped to _Har_-vey over here once you got bored. Or whatever the story is, I'm not here to judge."

She didn't really mean to begin a full-on attack on the woman's character, but it seemed that was where this train of thought was going, so she stuck with it. "Sure. I know plenty about Doctor Crane. But you're not giving me much motivation to spill it." Suddenly, her curiosity got the better of her. "How do you figure I have a connection with 'im, anyways?"

Rachel opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. This girl was not buying into her niceties, so she would just have to play by the arsonist's rules. "All right," she said, looking down at her folded hands on the table, "if you don't want to be friendly, then I don't have to be." She looked back up at Flicker, a somewhat more stern expression on her face. "Since you apparently aren't impressed upon by me trying to be amiable, then why should I waste my patience?" She raised her eyebrows. "I mean, it doesn't seem to be getting me anywhere, now does it?"

Rachel cleared her throat. This girl was getting in too deep, too personal. She chanced a glance towards the two-way mirror, knowing that Harvey and Gordon stood behind it, then looked back at Flicker. "I am Rachel Dawes," she said stiffly. "I am Mr. Dent's…" She paused, stealing another glance towards the mirror. "…Acquaintance," she said with a curt nod. She swallowed. "Mr. Wayne and I have been close friends since we were children." Her eyes strayed for a moment, and then she looked back at Flicker. "I don't see how any of that is any of your business," she said, "but there you have it."

Rachel paused, a little thrown, then, returning to professionalism, she pulled up her slim briefcase and set it on the table. "You were apprehended for the destruction of government property," she explained, strictly-business. "You were also convicted of possession. Now, it isn't my business to ask what kind of drugs they were…" Rachel pulled out a file and opened it, looking inside. "But from your symptoms, I'm going to have to guess LSD." She closed the folder again and stared over it at Flicker. "There are very few drug dealers left in Gotham," she said, frowning slightly. "The GPD has made sure of that. Any drug dealers left would be Falcone stragglers, selling off the last of an unchecked shipment."

She opened the folder again and looked down into it, her lips pursing as she read the file. "Name, Carly Fisher. Alias, Flicker. Convicted arsonist." Her blue eyes moved to Flicker for a moment, then back to the file. "Place of birth, New Jersey. Dropped out of college after becoming involved in gang activities. Had one younger brother, Brian, who died in a house fire. Suspected arson." She looked up at Flicker again and closed the file. "We know everything there is to know about you, Carly," she said, emphasizing the girl's name. "You're just hurting yourself by resisting our help."

Rachel stared at Flicker for a long moment, then, with a sigh, slipped the folder back into the briefcase. "I never said that I thought you had any kind of connection to Crane," she informed the younger woman with a kind of cold superiority. "You were the one who admitted to that. All I asked was if you had any information." Having finished putting the file away, she looked back up at Flicker, folding her arms in front of her on the interrogation table again. "So," she said, "now that we know who each other is… do you want to tell me anything about Dr. Crane?"

Flicker ignored the _very_ strong urge to tell Dawes off for calling her...that. Instead, she furrowed her brow. "Where the hell did you get that information?" she demanded, leaning forward as if to snatch the file away from the other woman. She remembered after a moment that her hands were still cuffed together, and settled back into her seat, though she was on edge now.

How did they know so _much_? All they _should_ know was what she was calling herself now and what she was being brought in for. They had no business digging around in her personal things. They had even _less_ business talking about Brian, and his...situation. She shifted uncomfortably.

"I'm not talking," she finally said after long consideration, "unless you tell me how you know all that, and swear you'll let me go. This is heavy shit...ma'am." The word had more than a small sting of sarcasm in it. "We _convicts_ don't go around giving out info for free, y'know." Despite being thrown off-balance, Flick still played up her bravado. She was _proud_ to be considered among those elite "wanted"s, the criminals the police were just dying to get their hands on. It meant something, in this town.

Rachel paused, listening to Flicker's words, then pointed to the girl, as if to strengthen her point. "We were willing to cut you a deal that involves some time in rehab, if you'll just give us the information we need," she told her. "You would serve some time here, do a little community service, spend some time in rehabilitation, and then we'd let you go free, just as long as we kept loose watch on you." She folded her arms. "But you don't seem to be interested in that," she said with a slightly frustrated sigh. "In fact… you seem to be doing everything you possibly can to not cooperate."

She leaned forward, her blue eyes locking with Flicker's. "We got this information from old case files," she explained, showing her the file again before stashing it back into her briefcase. "We looked for past instances of arson in Gotham, and dug up the information we needed from those." She took a breath. "The unfortunate house fire that a mentally handicapped young man set and got caught in… that's an old one." She looked back up at Flicker. "But you would know all about that," she said. She raised her eyebrows. "And so do we."

Rachel pursed her lips and stared at Flicker. Then she took a deep breath. "Listen," she said, leaning back in her chair. "I've tried to be friendly with you. I've tried to be to the point with you. I've even tried to corner you, against my better judgment." She paused, staring at Flicker, then went on, "but I will not be bullied by you. None of us will." She glanced towards the two-way mirror, then back at Flicker. "We're trying to save you a lot of trouble and frustration by giving you the opportunity to help us," she said, her eyebrows lowering, "and you're spitting in our faces."

She picked up her briefcase again, setting it in her lap, as if considering it, then looked back up at Flicker. "Well," she said, "since you won't talk…" She got up from her chair, taking her briefcase with her. "Enjoy your stay in County, Miss Fisher," she told her, heading for the door.

"You don't know _anything_!"

Carly was on her feet, hands braced on the metal interrogation table in front of her. It gleamed oddly in the dim light, throwing flashes into her eyes that momentarily blinded her, and in that moment she saw Brian's face. It wasn't even him at age sixteen, the day she left home...the last time she saw him. It was ten-year-old Brian, the one she'd given piggyback rides to up and down the stairs until her mother burst into the hall and started screaming at her to stop, stop, you're going to hurt him, just stop it, stop, _stop_...

She ripped herself away from the memories. "He...he didn't know what he was doing," she said, her previous shout turning into shaky denials. "He was...damn it, he was just sixteen! _I_ gave him that stupid lighter, an' _I_ told him to do something..." She dimly registered the wetness around her eyes and took a vicious swipe at it with the back of her hand, realizing too late that she was in cuffs. In the end, she wiped her face with her bare shoulder. "Don't even _talk_ about stuff you don't know about. He didn't commit arson."

A deep breath, a moment to relax, and Carly had worn herself out. She dropped back into her seat with a sigh, and said dully, "I don't wanna go to rehab, but I don't wanna go to county, neither. I can tell you about Crane, maybe even a little about the Joker." She took a hitching breath. "He will _kill me_ when he finds out. What'm I gonna do then?"

Rachel stopped before she got to the door and turned, looking back at Flicker with an interested and slightly superior look in her eyes. "So now you want to talk?" she asked. She folded her arms, considering the girl. "It doesn't matter whose fault it was," she told her. "He was still responsible for burning the house down. You might have been an accomplice, or even have set the whole thing up, but ultimately, he was the one who poured the kerosene, and he was the one who set the fire." She paused, taking a breath as she considered Flicker. "I know you must feel responsible for it," she said, trying again for a reassuring manner, "but you don't have to. It wasn't your fault."

Rachel unfolded her arms as she stared at Flicker, and put a hand on her hip, thoughtful. The girl was making a counter-offer, and Rachel was not fond of it, but in the end, she was not the final decider. "I'll be right back," she told her, turning away from her again. She put a hand on the door and waited for the buzzer, then opened the door once it was unlocked and let herself out.

. . .

Jeanette rubbed her eyes and leaned head head back against the headboard of the bed. She hadn't been able to sleep the entire night; even now, when Jeannie Rose was sleeping soundly next to her on the bed, she couldn't imagine how she could get to sleep.

Everything was so..._fucked up_. She shook her head slowly, then frowned and decided to just stop thinking about it. What the hell was thinking going to do, anyways? She looked over a Jeannie Rose, and reached out to shake her shoulder gently. "Hey, sweetheart." She checked the clock, and smiled. It was far too late for the girl to still be sleeping, even after the excitement from last night. "Sweetie, wake up. Come on."

Jeannie Rose yawned and rubbed her eyes, curling up tighter against Jeanette's warm side. "I'm sleepy," she murmured, opening first one dark eye and then the other and looking up at Jeanette, her expression somewhat pleading, in an endearing way. She stretched out her legs and then turned, burying her face in Jeanette's ribcage. "I don't wanna get up," she said, her voice muffled. Then she stretched and sat up in bed, trying to convince herself to wake up. "It's too early," she sighed.

Jeannie Rose stared down at her little frilly socks for a long moment, noting the hole in the toe of one of them, and then slid out of bed, reaching down to pick up her little pink shoes. "What're we gonna do today, Miss Jeanette?" she asked, still sounding half-asleep as she pulled on her shoes and secured the Velcro strap across each one, pressing the flower at the end of the strip flat against the side of the shoe. She looked up at Jeanette, her eyes expectant, and she took hold of the end of her little pink skirt, a sweet smile crossing her face.

"Can we go shopping today, Miss Jeanette?" asked Jeannie Rose. "You an' my mommie went shopping, but I never got to go shopping with you, 'cept that one time, when we went to get groceries an' stuff…" She looked down at the hole in the edge of her skirt, and her smile faded a little. "I don't really need new clothes," she reasoned. "But maybe a new skirt would be nice…" She fooled with the hole at the edge of her skirt for a moment, then let it fall back around her knees. "But not if you don't want to," she added.

She paused a moment, then stretched out her arms and started humming to herself, skipping out of the bedroom, now wide awake. "I'm hungry, Miss Jeanette," she called back towards the bedroom. "Can we eat breakfast before we go anywhere?" Jeannie Rose scampered into the kitchen, where something on the counter caught her attention. She tried to reach up to get it, but she was too small to reach. Looking around, Jeannie Rose saw the chairs at the kitchen table, and she pulled one over to the counter, stepping up on top of it to reach her destination.

Jeannie Rose sat on the counter, looking around, then, finding nothing that appealed to her, she looked down, opening one of the drawers between her legs. It was filled with inane things: pencils, pens, stacks of sticky-notes. Jeannie Rose closed it again, then sighed, swinging her legs. "Miss Jeanette," she called. "Can we make cookies sometime?" She turned and looked behind her, noting the ordinary things that adorned the kitchen. It was just like the kitchen of any higher-middle-class family. She felt right at home among the little-minded things that made up this last-resort residence.

Jeannie Rose swung her legs, waiting for Jeanette, then bent and opened the drawer between her knees again, pulling out a pencil and a small stack of slightly wrinkled printer-paper, and, crossing her legs under her, she placed the paper in her lap and began to draw, her figures lopsided and rudimentary. She smiled as two shapes came into being on her paper, and then frowned when the tip of her pencil broke. Jeannie Rose reached between her knees again and pulled out another pencil, which she began drawing with again. "Miss Jeanette," she said, thoughtful, as she continued drawing, "where did you go… last night… before Daddy left?"

She looked up, hoping to see Jeanette emerging from her bedroom, and then went back to drawing. "You never said where you were going, an' I didn't see you leave…" She set her pencil aside, admiring her work. It was a crude picture of herself and Napier. "Daddy told me to do as you said," she told her. "But you weren't there." She picked up her pencil again, and, with practiced precision, she drew in Napier's scars. "Where'd you go?" she asked. Jeannie Rose bit her lip, considering her drawing, then picked up her pencil again, and, at the top of the page, she wrote in, 'dady's litle girl'.

Satisfied with her good work, Jeannie Rose set it down on the counter, then stepped back down onto the chair and from there to the floor. She scurried over to the refrigerator and opened it, looking inside for something to eat. "Miss Jeanette," she called, closing the refrigerator, "there's nothing here." She moved away from the refrigerator, back towards the bedroom. "Can we have pancakes, Miss Jeanette?" she asked, smiling, holding onto the edge of her skirt. "Please?"

"Oh, sweets, I'm _sorry_." Jeanette had honestly and completely forgotten to get new clothing for the girl, in her confusion regarding Kitty. That was careless of her, she realized. Jeannie Rose needed to be taken care of. She was at that tender age where one wrong thing said to her could ruin her entire life.

Or blow straight over her head so that she just forgot about it, Jeanette amended, remembering the incident from last night. She pinched the bridge of her nose and followed the girl out into the kitchen.

She pushed aside most of the girl's inane comments and questions, not really in the mood to chatter. Her headache was beginning to come back, that near-constant one she'd had since this whole business began. She wondered briefly if there was going to be some great physical repercussion for all this, or serious mental damage, but that was too unpleasant of a thought to dwell on for long. She sighed.

But then Jeannie Rose asked about Jeanette's business the day before. She paused at the kitchen table and rested a hand on the back of the chair. Her considering gaze met the little girl's innocent one, until Jeannie Rose skipped off again to another part of the apartment. She seemed to have forgotten she even asked. Jeanette sighed in relief. Her job wasn't something she ever wanted to have to explain to a child. She wouldn't involve the girl any more than necessary; she'd already promised herself that.

There was the business she had to attend to today, she realized, picking at a strand of hair that had found a way out of her ponytail. She tucked it back in with razor precision then smiled. "Jeannie Rose, have you ever been to the police station downtown?"

"The police station?" Jeannie Rose wandered back into the kitchen, seeming a little surprised at the question. "I went down there once, with my mommie… they asked us all kinds of funny questions, then talked about my daddy like he was a real bad person." She frowned, remembering it, and looked up at Jeanette. "I don't believe that," she said. "I don't believe he's a bad person." She folded her arms. "Do you believe he's a bad person?" she asked Jeanette.

Jeannie Rose took a deep breath, then went on, "My mommie was scared and upset. She didn't want to answer their questions. They were asking too many questions, and she didn't like it… she said she didn't know anything, but I think she did… she was just tryin' to get those nosy polices to stop asking her all those questions." She unfolded her arms as her stomach grumbled softly, and she looked back up at Jeanette. "You aren't gonna take me to the police, are you?" she asked.

Ignoring her complaining stomach, Jeannie Rose moved to Jeanette and grabbed hold of her hand, refusing to let go. "Don't take me to the police, Miss Jeanette!" she begged. "They'll take me away from you. They'll put me someplace they say is safe, until they find my mommie…" She took a sharp breath, trying to hold back tears. "They did it before, once," she said. "They took me away from my mommie a couple weeks ago, when there was that big thing that went on… they said it wasn't safe for us to be together, because bad people were on the loose. They put me with a bunch of other children, and they took my mommie away…"

Tears were starting to form in her eyes. "Please don't let them take me away again, Miss Jeanette!" she begged. "I don't want to be with the other children… I want to be with you, and I want to be with my Daddy!" She buried her face in Jeanette's side, holding onto her leg. She sniffled, then said, "But if you have to…" Jeannie Rose turned away from her, going back towards the counter, and picked up the picture she had drawn. "Can you give this to my Daddy, next time you see him?" she asked, handing it up to Jeanette.

"No, nono," Jeanette said hurriedly, holding back an exasperated sigh. She'd almost prefer having to deal with Jack to this little fireball. At least she somewhat _understood_ him and could anticipate what he was about to do.

Sort of.

With Jeannie Rose, though, she never quite knew what she would say that would set the little girl off. Jeanette found herself having to step carefully and watch her words. And god, was it a hard job. She took the drawing from the girl and set it on the nearby table, then picked her up and rubbed her back soothingly. She tried to explain, "I'm not going to leave you there. I promise, okay? You're going to stay with me, where it's safe...safer." She winced, remembering how easily Crane had snatched Kitty from her.

It wasn't going to happen again. "We're just going to see if the police can help find her," she said. "You can even stay _here_, if you want...No." She steeled her shoulders with a frown. "No, that would be a bad idea." Jack's threat to reclaim Jeannie Rose rang like warning bells in her head. "You have to come."

But the police might know Jeannie Rose. The girl's fears were actually well-founded, Jeanette realized; if they knew that she wasn't her mother, they'd take Jeannie Rose from her in a heartbeat. She couldn't let that happen; the police in this city, after all, were just about as reliable as the wind. "It's not like they'd remember your face after seeing you one time," she said, taking out the keys to the apartment. "It'll be just fine."

Jeannie Rose nodded, listening to Jeanette, her arms fastened around the woman's neck. Jeanette had promised her that she would be safe if she stayed with her. It made sense; Jeannie Rose felt safe when she was with Jeanette. But there were always times when even Jeanette could not stop bad things from happening, and she knew that. But here, now, safe in Jeanette's arms, she felt as if nothing could get her. She nodded, burying her face in Jeanette's shoulder. "Okay," she murmured. "You won't let them get me…"

She listened to Jeanette's indecisive reasoning. "Don't leave me here," she said, tightening her grip around Jeanette's neck. "Last time I was here, an' my mommie was here, an' you left… they came. The bad man came an' took her." She frowned. "He just came to the door… my mommie told me to hide… an' he just took her with him." She found a niche for her legs against Jeanette's hips, and adjusted herself to sit comfortably in the woman's arms. "I'm afraid he'll come for me, Miss Jeanette," she said, frightened. "I'm afraid he'll come back, an' he'll want to take me, too."

Jeannie Rose shook her head. "Please don't let him get me, Miss Jeanette," she said, her voice lower. "He… scares me." She looked up at Jeanette, then. "But he doesn't scare you, does he, Miss Jeanette?" she asked. She set her expression, determined, and pursed her lips. "Nothing scares you, does it, Miss Jeanette?" she asked. "You're not scared of anything. Not even my Daddy. An' he's not scared of anything, either." She let out a sigh, losing her determined expression, now looking tired and sad once more. "I wish I was brave like you, Miss Jeanette," she said, settling back against Jeanette.

She sniffled, wiping the remnants of tears from her cheeks as she nestled her face into Jeanette's shoulder, biting her lip. "Do you really think they'll be able to find her, Miss Jeanette?" she asked faintly. "My mommie… Do you really think they will?" She paused a moment, thinking. Then, "Miss Jeanette," she said, her voice serious, "if we go to the police station, and they find my mommie… will I ever see you again?"

"Baby, I'm scared of _lots_ of things," Jeanette corrected, readjusting the girl in her arms to better lock the door to her apartment. She went down the stairs as she continued talking. "I'm scared I'm not going to be able to find your mommy, or that something bad is going to happen to you, or that my father will come back...I'm scared of lots and lots of things." She smiled at Jeannie Rose determinedly. "But you can't let things like that stop you, or you'd be too scared to do _anything_. Right?"

She hailed a cab, seriously considering for a moment the benefit of getting a car of her own. It wasn't a good idea, really; she wouldn't be staying here much longer anyways. On that train of thought, she looked again at Jeannie Rose, wondering how to answer her question. "Probably not," she finally said, truthfully. It really all depended on what Kitty wanted. Jeanette wasn't about to intrude on a perfectly happy family if that wasn't what the woman wanted. And after all, all Jeanette had brought with her so far was trouble. She wouldn't blame Kitty for wanting to shut her out.

The drive to the police station only took a few minutes; by some odd coincidence, Jeanette had rented out an apartment quite close to the station. She led Jeannie Rose through the main doors by the hand, having set her down, and walked up to the reception area. "Hi, I wanted to file a missing persons report," she told the uniformed man seated behind the desk.

. . .

Carly waited in the interrogation room in uncomfortable silence. She felt the insane urge to sing, to dance, to rap her knuckles on the table, just do _something_ to break that quiet. It was deafening.

Dent shook his head, leaning on his knuckles as he looked into the interrogation room. "She's a little prick," he grumbled, glaring at Flicker. He turned to look at Gordon. "We're not really going to comply with her orders, are we?" he asked. "She's stepping all over you. If you want anyone to have any respect for you at all, you have to stress the punishments you dole out."

Gordon frowned at Dent as Rachel came into the room, setting her briefcase on the floor. "I don't _dole out punishment,_ Harvey," Gordon told him, turning to look at the younger man with a scowl. He was clearly losing patience with Dent's hot-headed ways, but he was not going to say anything about it, if he could help it. He turned to Rachel. "She's obviously not going to do what we want her to do with what we offer her," he said. "But she can't just be let back on the streets. She needs rehabilitation."

"She needs to be locked up in Arkham," Dent growled, folding his arms. "Or County."

"We're not sending her to County," Gordon stated, intent. "If she goes back to prison, I'm keeping her here."

"What is this, Gordon, your fortress?" Dent scoffed.

"They'll kill her over in County," Gordon stressed. "And plus, I don't trust them there."

"Well, I don't trust them _here,_" Dent growled.

Ignoring him, Gordon turned back to Rachel. "Offer her either a shorter stay in rehab or a stint in Arkham. If she accepts either one, then hopefully that'll get her to talk." He sighed. "Also, go easy on the brother stuff," he urged her. "It obviously gets her all defensive. Try…" He hesitating, trying to find the words. "Try to be sensitive, all right?" he asked, wincing a bit at the wording.

"Sensitive?" Dent asked, frowning over at Gordon. "She needs a good sensitive knock in the head, is what she needs." He shook his head, turning back towards the window. "You're getting soft, Gordon," he said, sounding disgusted.

"Well, I don't see _you_ running this zoo, Dent," said Gordon. "Sometimes being a little soft is the best thing a man can be." He raised his eyebrows. "Don't forget that I'm married with kids," he added.

Dent scowled. Gordon cut deep.

Gordon turned back to Rachel. "She knows something. We need to know it. See if you can use any way possible to get it out of her… excluding physically harming her." At this, he glanced at Dent, who ignored him.

Rachel nodded. "Got it," she said. She turned and headed back out of the room, going back to the door, which buzzed as she was allowed access, then closed it behind her and sat down across from Flicker again, folding her hands on the table.

"We're willing to offer you a shortened stay in rehab," she said, "or a short stay in Arkham instead of a long stay in County in exchange for your information." She took a breath. "You'll be released at the end of your stay, and you'll be placed under witness protection to make sure nothing happens to you once you're free."

Flicker heaved a sigh of relief when Rachel reappeared, and another one at the proposed offer. There wasn't a fucking _chance_ of her going to Arkham, not when she'd met its old supervisor and been subject to his taunts and insane whims for the last week. But a short stay in rehab she could deal with. That wouldn't drive her _completely_ insane. The thought made her want to giggle. Time for some cooperation, it seemed.

Rachel paused, thinking. "Also," she added, thinking as she spoke, "we'll give you access to any and all information you want regarding… your brother, and… what… happened."

Dent's eyes widened, and he leaned forward towards the window. "She can't do that!" he exclaimed. "That's… that's classified police information!" He looked over at Gordon. "She… she'd be going through a private police file!" He looked back in the room, then started for the door, but Gordon stopped him.

"Leave it!" Gordon exclaimed, catching him by the arm. Dent looked surprised, but Gordon's face was set. "Just let her be," he said, calmer. He turned back towards the window, watching Rachel and Flicker.

Rachel nodded her affirmation of her statement, keeping her eyes locked with Flicker's. "Now," she said, leaning towards her a bit more, "can you tell me what you know about Crane… and the Joker?"

She held up one finger. "The Joker, not so much. I heard that he and Crane worked together, at least one time..." She tried to remember back to that day, the morning after their capture of Jeanette, when the woman had made Crane go fucking _psycho_. He'd mentioned his partnership with the Joker. "That's pretty much it. Oh, and I know he was at a motel in the Narrows a few days ago. Maybe five...no, wait, six days..." She scratched her head. "Nah, I can't remember."

A second finger went up. "And then Crane. He offered to pay me to work with him...um, I'm not entirely sure how long ago that was." She paused again, puzzled. How could the past few days seem like such a blur? Or had it been weeks, not days? "Maybe over a week. He has this guy with him, big, black hair..." She squinted, then said, "Probably six foot or so. And I think he's from Arkham. He wears one of those god-awful jumpsuit things." She faux-gagged.

"This lady's always there, too. Goes by Kitty, 's far as I've heard; not really sure what that stands for, or whatever. Shorter 'n me, brown hair, blue eyes." The sparse description was all she could remember. Or, at least, most of it, and after all, Rachel wasn't really offering her freedom in exchange for the information. "Crane raped her or something. Said she was...um...some guy's wife. Somebody important, I think..." Her eyes squinted in concentration, then a she grinned when she finally remembered. "The Joker. That's right, he screwed the Joker's wife for revenge or something. But why would...that doesn't make any sense," she told herself.

Anyways..."He hasn't really done much but move around...a _lot_. He's got a gun, I think, and he shot a guy a little while back. Pretty old. Same eyes as Crane. Oh, and he had me set fires to a few places." She realized her slip, and quickly corrected herself. "_Made_ me. Against my will." There was a moment of awkward silence, and Carly went on. "Anyways, we blew up Kitty's house with some logging dynamite, some writer-lady's place, an AA meeting spot..." She ticked off the places on her fingers, then finally stopped. "I think that's it. He didn't really kill anybody that I remember, only that one guy."

The thought spurred a sudden memory. "Oh, yeah. This other chick came along with us for a while, but not for long, she got away." Carly couldn't for the life of her remember the name of the woman. She'd been gone a long time. Or what felt like a long time. "Kind of dark skin, long hair - it was dark, too, probably black - jogger...I think. We ran into her jogging. When _she_ was jogging, that is." There was something missing, Carly thought. Something that she'd forgotten. She shrugged. It couldn't have been anything important. "She got away with Kitty a little while ago, but we followed her and got Kitty back." Put that way, it sounded like a game of capture the flag. She grinned. "But I'm not sure where she is now. That woman, I mean."

Rachel's brow furrowed as Flicker recited her list of facts. They had hit a metaphorical gold mine of information with this girl that Gordon's team had been lucky enough to pick up, and Rachel could not help glancing over her shoulder every so often to look over at the two-way mirror. It was like hitting the lottery, and, like hitting the lottery, the pay-off would be gradual, but it was the satisfaction of knowing that you had won that had the most effect. Rachel smiled at Flicker as she finished ticking off the tidbits on her fingers, then stood from the table.

"If you'll excuse me for a minute," she said. She walked past Flicker, to the door, waited for it to buzz, then walked out of the room.

Dent stopped the recorder with a satisfied nod, grinning triumphantly in at Flicker. "We got it," he said.

"And we didn't even have to pull any of her fingers off," Gordon added as a cynical afterthought.

Dent glanced over at Gordon, then decided to ignore his comment. Rachel came into the room, her arms folded, a satisfied smile on her pretty face. "I think we got it," she said, nodding her confirmation. "I think this girl just handed us both of them on a silver platter."

"Tarnished steel, more like," said Dent, leaning against the table and staring in at Flicker. He frowned slightly. "She gave us leads, but she didn't really tell us anything," he said with a somewhat irritated sigh.

"She's an eyewitness to Crane's destruction of property and murder," said Gordon, folding his arms. "She might as well have written up his court case for him. What did you expect her to give us, Harvey?" He glanced over at Dent, skeptical. "His social security number?"

"As far as I know, that's already in the system," Dent said, then added under his breath, "Or maybe the police are more incompetent than I thought."

"We've got a recorded witness to the Crane crimes," said Rachel, keeping her eyes on Gordon. "She says Crane and the Joker worked together, and that Crane has the Joker's wife."

"So she's _not_ dead, after all," Gordon said, nodding, his eyes on the ground as he puzzled out the case. He looked up at Rachel. "So then why would Crane destroy her house, if there was no one in it?"

"As a distraction," Dent answered, looking over at Gordon. "He wanted you to think that she was dead. …And it worked, you _did_ think she was dead." He looked back in at Flicker. "Up until now."

"So then why would he rape her?" Rachel asked, cupping her cheek in her hand. "Revenge just doesn't seem right. What would he need revenge on the Joker for?"

"It couldn't have been revenge," said Gordon, shaking his head. "That just doesn't fit."

"Maybe it was just plain human lust," Dent suggested. "Crane's a man. All men are subject to it. A lone woman, scared, defenseless, young, probably kinda pretty… there's nothing stopping him from taking advantage of her, especially if everyone thinks she's dead."

"Right, so then where's the daughter?" asked Gordon.

At this, Dent looked up. "Daughter?" he asked.

Gordon nodded, distracted. "Yeah, the Joker has a daughter, five years old. Last we'd heard of her, she was in her mother's care."

"She didn't mention anything about a daughter," Rachel said, her brow furrowing. She glanced back at Flicker. "But what about the other man she mentioned? The tall dark-haired one? She said he escaped from Arkham."

"Charles Goodhart," said Gordon, nodding. He looked over at Rachel. "Crane released him from Arkham a day or so after he got free. Apparently he's looking for Maria."

"Everyone seems to be looking for Maria nowadays," said Dent.

"No, not so much anymore," Gordon corrected him. "Now everyone's more focused on Kitty." He let out a huff of breath, thoughtful, staring in at Flicker. "As for the tall, dark-haired girl…" he said, "I have no idea who that could possibly be."

"A jogger," said Dent, unhelpful. He shrugged. "Like I said, maybe Crane is just finding helpless women to rape. Maybe he just needs a good fuck." Rachel looked affronted, but Dent raised his eyebrows. "Hey," he said, defensive, "he's only human, after all."

Rachel shook her head and turned back to Gordon, who was staring in at Flicker, thoughtful. "What do you think we should do with her?" she asked.

Gordon unfolded his arms, stuffing his hands into his pockets, and took a deep breath. "We hold her here for a couple of days," he said. "Maybe question her again, see if she changes her story or if we can get some more information out of her… then send her off to rehab." He looked up at Rachel. "There's not much more we really _can_ do," he told her.

Rachel nodded, then turned away to head back to the interrogation room. Dent stood straight, staring in as Rachel entered the room and exchanged some words with Flicker, then helped her to her feet, holding onto her elbow, and led her from the room, the door buzzing as she exited. Gordon turned away from Dent, starting out of the back room to meet Rachel, and pointed over his shoulder at the recording machine. "Don't take that tape just yet, Harvey," he told him. "I'm going to want a copy of it to keep here for police records."

Dent glanced up at Gordon, then back down at the recording device. "Sure thing," he said, just loud enough for Gordon to hear, a bitter note of resentful, sarcastic enthusiasm in his voice. "Police records. Gotta have 'em." He shut off the machine, then, checking to make sure everything was turned off and in its place, he followed Gordon out of the room.

Gordon took Flicker's arm from Rachel and started leading the girl back towards the cells. He opened the door of the one she had been kept in and ushered her back inside, a bit forcefully, as it seemed the girl had no interest in getting back into the cell, and then shut the door, which locked automatically. "We're just going to keep you here for another few days or so," he assured Flicker, holding up his hands to show he meant her no malice. "We just need to make sure we've gotten all the information we can before we send you off to rehab. Don't worry, we'll try to make your stay as painless as possible."

Dent scoffed. Gordon threw him a look, and he turned away.

Rachel folded her arms, staring in at Flicker. "We have to make sure we have everything we need from you," she told Flicker, more strictly-business than before. "We're going to interrogate you a few more times before we let you go, just in case."

"So if you didn't spill anything today, or if you conveniently _forgot,_" Dent said, his voice harsh, "make sure you write it down somewhere so you don't forget it next time."

"Harvey, leave the girl alone," Gordon told him, peeved. Dent shrugged, giving him an almost childish look of disgust. Just then, Gordon's walkie-talkie began to crackle, and he pulled it off his belt, listening to it. "Please repeat that," he said.

"I said," repeated the policeman at the front of the station, staring at Jeanette and Jeannie Rose over the top of his computer screen, "we have a missing persons report that needs to be filed, and I'm not sure how to do it." He offered Jeanette an uneasy smile as he waited for the response, and his eyes flicked to Jeannie Rose again. She stared up at him, holding onto Jeanette's hand, and frowned slightly.

"Stop looking at me," she said. "I don't like being looked at so much."

He chuckled nervously and picked up the walkie-talkie again. "Gordon, I need you to come fill out this report," he said, starting to drum his fingers on the desk.

Gordon sighed, looking between Dent, Rachel and Flicker, then said, "I'm coming." He clipped the walkie-talkie back onto his belt and pointed at Flicker. "You be good," he said. He started to turn to leave, then turned back and pointed at Dent as well. "You, too," he said.

"What, me?" Dent asked, taken aback.

"Be good," Gordon said, and he turned and started towards the front of the police station. As soon as he got to the front desk, he looked over Jeanette and Jeannie Rose and offered them both an apologetic smile, then leaned down to the young man at the desk. "What seems to be the problem, here?" he asked.

"Sir," said the man haltingly. "I don't… know… how to fill out a missing… persons… report." He pointed towards his computer screen, and Gordon looked at it. On the screen was the profile of a little honey-haired, brown-eyed girl, Jeannie Rose Smith, marked as MISSING. The man at the desk offered Jeanette a nervous, rueful smile as he indicated the picture more forcefully to Gordon. Gordon looked at the picture on the computer screen, then up at Jeanette, and then over at Jeannie Rose. It was unmistakably the same child.

Gordon nodded, clearing his throat. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience, Miss," he said, addressing Jeanette. "Let me just… get something real quick…" He reached behind him, as if to pull something from his back pocket. "And I'll be happy to…" As quick as lightning, Gordon pulled his gun from its holster and pointed it at Jeanette. "Grab the girl!" he instructed the young man. The young man grabbed Jeannie Rose's wrist, pulling her away from Jeanette.

"Let go of me!" Jeannie Rose screamed, trying to wriggle away from the policeman. "Get _off _me! MISS JEANETTE!" She looked up at Jeanette, her eyes pleading. "Miss Jeanette, don't let them take me away again, _please!_"

Gordon stood poised, his gun pointed at Jeanette. "Put your hands in the air," he instructed her. He hoped he would not have to have to use excessive force with this woman. "I don't know who you are or how you got this child," he said, breathing hard, his pulse quick, "but at the moment, unless you can come up with a really good alibi, you're under arrest for the kidnapping of Jeannie Rose Smith."


	59. Chapter FiftyEight

Jeanette had plunged her hand into her purse and pulled her handgun halfway out when she realized just how stupid of a move that had been.

The second of the day, it seemed. How could she have thought bringing Jeannie Rose to the police station was _safe_? Of course Gordon's officers, if not the man himself, would have been on the lookout for Jeannie Rose; the girl was presumed missing, and was probably considered an important piece in finding Napier. She couldn't assume the police were incompetent enough to not get a record of the girl's face.

She put the gun back into her bag as smoothly as possible and moved it behind her back, out of sight. "I don't know what you're talking about," she replied. It wasn't necessary to fake a quaver in her voice; that was there whether she liked it or not. She would _not_ lose Jeannie Rose. She'd promised the girl, she'd promised Kitty, she'd promised herself...It was the one thing she had left, and she would not screw it up. "She's my friend's daughter. I'm just watching her for a while"

Facing a loaded gun without her own pointing back at it was making Jeanette's fingers itch. She resisted the urge to incapacitate Gordon right then, instead smiling shakily. "She's been staying with me for a few days. Her mother asked me to watch her." She realized, a bit too late, that the lie might incriminate her even more; any connection to Kitty would probably be under suspicion by the GPD.

Kaitlyn walked through the doors, leading Thomas Hale, who looked altogether irritable and shamed. It had taken a bit of work to get Hale to cooperate; she'd had to threaten several times to just dump him in the Narrows and leave him at the mercy of whatever pickpocket, rapist, or mugger found him first. After that, he'd begun to go along quite nicely. Now, though, she took a quick look at the scene before her, and saw the gun disappear into the woman's bag. At that moment, she stopped caring about Hale, who wouldn't be going anywhere fast anyways, and moved quietly forward.

She took the gun out of the woman's purse as stealthily as possible and immediately removed the magazine from its end. She dumped the bullets out into her hand to neutralize the threat, then glanced up at Gordon. She held out the gun. "Here."

Jeanette looked on with horror. Any alibi she might have had as an innocent bystander had just been shattered. She had no legitimate weapons license or reason at all to be carrying around a gun; if Gordon wanted to take her in for that alone, even ignoring the kidnapping charges, he could.

Thomas, waiting sulkily in the corner, finally spoke up. "Okay, I don't know what's going on here, but I don't care. Who are you? And why the _hell_ did you handcuff me?!" he asked Kaitlyn. But Kaitlyn was too distracted at the moment to be paying attention to the man. Her gaze was focused on the bullets in her hand. Something about them sparked a memory, and she just _knew_ it was important. But what...?

It hit her like a cement truck. The markings. It was the markings on the body of the bullets, those tapered grooves swirling up to the tip. They were the same as those in the picture that Robert had shown her just the other day. Unless Kaitlyn was _extremely_ mistaken (and it had certainly happened before), this woman was the sniper everyone was looking for, and could give them an enormous lead on the Joker case.

Kaitlyn didn't bother with words. She wrenched the woman's arms behind her back - she'd run out of handcuffs. "I'd say hands up," she said, fulfilling the timeless tradition of witty banter with her usual elegant flair, "but I don't think that'd be the best idea." She thought about that for a moment, then looked up at Gordon. "You're going to want to talk to this one. I'll bet she can help with the Joker case."

As much as it grieved her to have to work with the police, she was technically on their turf now. After all, one didn't just steal an arrest when someone else already had a gun pointed at the perp. She could probably use the police's help, too. The thought reminded her of Robert, who she really ought to call soon. He'd want to be a part of this.

"You think she might have something to do with the shootings?" Gordon held out his hand for the gun and bullets, and studied them with a hard frown when they were handed to him. "Take that to Kent," he said, handing them back to Kaitlyn. "He'll take them to the lab for analysis. No, wait…" He had totally forgotten that Kent was dead. Biting his lip, he corrected himself, "Take that to Ramirez, and she'll take it to the lab." Ramirez was one of the people that Gordon rarely found himself working with, mostly because the two of them were not exactly compatible. She seemed too flighty and indecisive, and Gordon knew that he would be driven crazy by her if she were to work beside him in their unit.

"Take the girl to Montoya," Gordon instructed the man at the desk. "She'll know what to do." With a nod, the young officer turned to go, dragging Jeannie Rose along with him, still protesting.

"No!" Jeannie Rose exclaimed. "I don't wanna go! You can't make me go back to that lady! You can't make me!" She tried to yank her hand away from the officer's grasp, but it was firm, so, without thinking, she sank her teeth into the man's hand. With a yelp of pain, the young officer let go of the little girl's wrist, and she ran to Jeanette, clinging to her leg. "Miss Jeanette," she pleaded, "you said you wouldn't let them take me away – you _promised!_"

Gordon's brow furrowed. This was stranger than he had anticipated. It seemed that the girl had developed a Stockholm syndrome for her kidnapper – if she really was a kidnapper. The fact that the woman carried a concealed weapon and her story did not check out on any level was mighty suspicious, but the girl seemed to trust her indefinitely. Of course, if the woman knew enough about Jeannie Rose to already know she was a priority for finding by the police, then she probably knew something about the girl's parents. Then again, if it had been her aim to keep the girl away from the police, then why had she brought the girl with her to the police station?

Gordon lowered his gun, staring at Jeanette and Jeannie Rose. Then he looked over at Thomas and Kaitlyn. "Who's this guy?" he asked, indicating Thomas. Then he shook his head. "Nevermind, you can tell me later. Let's toss him into the holding cell for now." He looked back at Jeanette. "We have more important things to think about, at the moment," he said. Gordon nervously fingered the gun in his hand, biting his lip under his moustache as he looked at Jeannie Rose, then back up at Jeanette.

"I'd like to ask you a few questions," he told Jeanette. "It won't take but a few minutes. And if you have any information that may prove useful to the police…" He took a breath, glancing over at Kaitlyn. "We may be able to let you off with a reduced charge," he finished. His eyes returned to Jeanette. "At the moment, you're facing charges for carrying a concealed weapon without a license, kidnapping, and, potentially, depending on whether or not the lab tests come back positive…" He paused a moment, then said, "First-degree murder."

Gordon looked at Jeannie Rose to see her reaction to this, only to find that she was staring intently at him, still clinging just as tightly to Jeanette's leg, though watching him with a look of fascination. He cleared his throat. "With all those charges, we could put you away for life… or worse," he told Jeanette. "But if you can help us…" He slipped his gun back into its holster and held up his hands. "I don't want to hurt you," he told her, sincere. "I just want us to be friends. All right?" He raised his eyebrows. "This can be painless for all of us, if you'll just cooperate."

He lowered his hands, still staring intently at Jeanette. "So," he said, "what's your answer?"

Kaitlyn stood by quietly. She knew enough to understand when her opinion was needed. Whatever Gordon wanted to do with the perps she'd brought in was his decision, as much as she didn't like it.

A tiny scowl creased her brow, however, at his promise of a reduced sentence. "I wouldn't jump to the gun...sir," she interrupted, gritting her teeth at the title. Okay, _fine_. He was technically superior to her. But _she'd_ been the one to solve this case. Or, at least, she'd been the one to follow the trail. "What she's up for is pretty serious. Besides, at this point, it might lie beyond your jurisdiction, depending on her connections to the J...that other case."

With that, she towed Hale away once more (the man was still complaining and muttering something about a lawyer under his breath), this time leading him to the holding cells in the back.

Jeanette looked helplessly between Jeannie Rose and Gordon. She _knew_ she'd promised that she wouldn't let the girl get taken away. There was really no chance of that promise being kept at this point, but it wasn't like a five-year-old would understand that. She couldn't risk being put in prison for _too_ long. After all, she didn't really have anyone in town who'd be willing to get her out.

Well, maybe one person. Or two.

Which reminded her. "I'll cooperate," she finally said, glancing apologetically at Jeannie Rose. "But I have my conditions." She wasn't really sure if she was in a position to be making demands, but it was worth a shot. "I want her put with someone she knows, if possible," she said, nodding at Jeannie Rose, "and...I want my phone call."

Thomas was shoved none too ceremoniously into one of the holding cells at the back of the station. He shouted a few final words after the redheaded lady who he was beginning to think of as some kind of possessed devil, then sat back on the uncomfortable metal bench with a frustrated sigh.

Weird, how life got screwed up so damn easily. He'd been riding high, and all of a sudden that maniac had burst into his house, claiming he had connections to the Joker. He winced. Okay, technically, she was right. But it wasn't what the police thought. If Thomas had thought he had any information that could help the investigation, he would have gone straight to the police with it.

But that was a blatant lie, and he knew it. He was in this for the profit, and for sending a message to these incompetent cops. With a sigh, Thomas leaned back against the cool wall. "How the fuck did this happen?" he muttered, not expecting a reply.

"Tell me about it."

Thomas sat up with a start. He hadn't realized that there was anyone else in the back room. He looked around, spotting a young woman in one of the nearby cells. Her bright blue eyes were fixed on him; he shifted nervously under her gaze. She looked like an _actual_ criminal, with her grimy clothing, pasty and pale complexion, and deep bags under her eyes. He gave a noncommittal shrug and looked anxiously back towards the front of the station, hoping there were some guards that came and checked on the cells every so often.

Carly found this very amusing. "Y'_scared_ of me?" she asked, leaning forward on her cot and lacing her fingers together. She could feel herself teetering on the fine line between Carly and Flicker; this was a crisis, and she usually responded to crises by hiding behind her more boisterous side. Unfortunately, she was just calm enough to stay herself. For the time being, at least.

"C'mon, I don't bite." Her tone, meant to be reassuring, turned out to be bitter and taunting. "Much, at least. And there are bars in the way anyways. What're you in for?" She leered. "White-collar crime, right?"

"Nothing," Thomas replied sharply, albeit a bit shakily. He stoically refused to meet her gaze. "Just...nothing."

Carly sighed. "Fine, have it your way," she said, leaning back down to lay on the cot and stare at the dust particles shining in the harsh light from a nearby window. She blew out a breath; the dust scattered. "Fuckin' boring..."

Gordon frowned slightly at the agent's words of warning. He knew what he was doing… potentially. This was a new kind of situation, and he was just playing by ear. If the woman were to make any kind of sudden movement, he did not know whether or not pulling his gun again would be a good idea. She seemed harmless enough, but, then again, so did most serial killers, until you got to know them. Gordon put his hands on his hips, looking between Jeanette and Jeannie Rose, moustache bristling slightly as the agent dragged her quarry off to the holding cells.

"A connection to the Joker case?" Gordon looked over his shoulder towards the agent, but she was already out of earshot. He looked back at Jeanette. If she could give him information on the Joker case, and if he could get information from Flicker on the Crane case, then the cases were as good as closed. He could not just let this woman go if she knew something important. He scratched his chin, torn. If he complied with the woman's demands, then she might be more willing to give him important information. If not, she might clam up, and then none of them would get anywhere.

Gordon folded his arms, staring at Jeanette. "I'm not really sure what to do with you," he said. He looked at Jeannie Rose again, and sighed. "Kitty wasn't listed as having any contacts, or any relatives," he said, shaking his head slightly. He looked back up at Jeanette. "I think the safest place for the girl would be in police custody. Don't worry, we'll take good care of her," he assured her. He looked back at Jeannie Rose. "We won't let anything happen to you until we can find your mother," he told the little girl. "Okay?"

Jeannie Rose clung to Jeanette's hand. "No," she said.

Gordon opened his mouth to speak again, but before he could say anything, the double-doors leading to the holding cells opened and Dent came into the front of the station. "What the hell is going on, Gordon?" he demanded. "You leave for a couple of minutes and the next thing we know, the reporter from the Times is getting flung into one of the cells!" He propped his hands on his hips, disgusted, and looked over at Jeanette and Jeannie Rose. "And who are these two?" he asked.

"The little girl is the Joker's daughter," said Gordon, pointing at Jeannie Rose. "The one I was telling you about."

Dent looked surprised, and stared at Jeannie Rose for a long moment before looking back at Gordon. "She looks like him," he said. Then he looked back at Jeanette. "And her?" he asked, not bothering to address Jeanette, herself.

"She brought the girl," Gordon said. "However, she's up for charges of potential kidnapping, premeditated murder on two accounts, and carrying a concealed weapon without a license." Maybe the agent was right; maybe it was out of his hands. In any case, anything that Gordon did not have the authority to decide, Harvey Dent certainly did. Maybe his call would be good. Then again, Dent was known for having a quick temper. Gordon was torn, but still he asked, "What would you say her sentence should be?"

"County," Dent said, almost instantly. His eyes flashed as he looked at Jeanette, seeming almost like a lion inspecting its long-awaited prey. He looked back at Gordon. "Since the Death Penalty has been outlawed in Gotham, I'm going to have to go with life in County."

"What if," Gordon quickly interjected, "she knows something about the Joker case that could help us to catch him and close the case for good?"

Dent looked back at Jeanette again, then at Jeannie Rose, and then back at Jeanette. Then he turned back to Gordon. "You don't really want to let her go, do you, Gordon?" he asked. "I mean, all the things you just said she was up for –"

"I said she was _potentially_ up for them," Gordon corrected Dent. "_Potentially._ Maybe she _didn't_ kidnap the girl at all. Maybe she just _happens_ to have the same make of bullets as our sniper. And maybe –"

"And maybe you're just making up excuses to get another criminal out of time in County," Dent snapped. "You have to give up sometime, Gordon. Not all of Gotham's scum can stay here, in your little fortress. Sooner or later, you're going to run out of room."

Gordon looked at Jeanette, frowning, then back at Dent. "I say we question her," he said. "See what we can learn. Then we'll see about her sentencing."

"And what about the girl?" Dent asked. "Where are you going to send her?"

Gordon looked at Jeannie Rose, clinging to Jeanette's hand, then back at Dent. "_I'm_ going to take care of her," he finally said, sounding determined. He nodded in stolid confirmation. "She's going to stay at my house, with my wife and three other children."

Dent frowned. "You can't adopt them _all,_ Gordon," he said.

Gordon shook his head. "No," he said, "you're right, I can't." He turned back to Jeannie Rose and smiled at her. "But that doesn't mean I can't _help_ them all," he said. He reached into his pocket, dug around for a bit, and then pulled out his work cell. He tossed it to Jeanette, then folded his arms again.

"One phone call," he said sternly. "Then, questioning."

Jeanette caught the phone with a grim smile. This was about all she could do for herself, at this point, and god only knew if it would even work. She spared a worried glance up at Jeannie Rose, who was still protesting their separation. She wished she could explain what was going on to the little girl, but she couldn't in front of Gordon, not if she didn't want to incriminate herself further. So she just dialed the number she knew by heart and waited through several rings.

"Come on, Ozzie..." she couldn't help murmuring, turning slightly away from Gordon's watchful gaze. "For once in your life, pick up the damn phone." She could only pray that he was at the Lounge at all; there was any number of business opportunities that could have called the man - her _friend_, she had to remind herself - away.

. . .

Crane rubbed his temples in poorly-masked irritation. He had often pressed the uselessness of Flicker when she had been a part of the group, but now she was gone, he was felt that he was suddenly lacking something. He put his tensed hands into his lap, clenching them into fists as he let out a deep breath. "We've lost one of our members," he said slowly, looking up at the other two members of the ragtag group. He smoothed out the front of his jacket, thinking. "Our main priority is to make sure she doesn't disclose any important information."

"You're afraid she'll tell them about what you did to me?" Kitty asked.

Crane frowned slightly. "You?" he asked. "Don't make me laugh. There are so many things I've done that are so much worse than what I've done to you." He let out a huff of breath, almost in disgust. "No, she made the mistake of getting herself caught by the police… she'll probably try to make some kind of deal with them, so they'll let her go… tell them about me, about everything I've had her do…" He took a deep breath. "She's probably twisting the story to make herself sound like the victim… make me out to be the bad guy."

"You _are_ the bad guy," Kitty argued. "You're evil."

"So I've been told," Crane said, sounding bored. He shrugged. "Flicker thinks she's going to sell us out… and now I'm going to make her pay for it."

"The police have her," Kitty said, staring at him, her face set in a deep, almost satisfied, scowl. "She's safe from you."

Crane turned to her, glaring at her. "The police are powerless against me," he replied coldly.

"How are you going to do that?" Kitty demanded. "Walk into the police station and seek her out?" She glared back at him. "Everyone knows your face," Kitty said. "Everyone knows his face." She indicated towards Goodhart. "Mine, too," she said, turning back to Crane. She shook her head slowly. "Unless you intend to use some kind of distraction maneuver," she said, "she's safe from you."

Crane paused, then chuckled slightly. "You also said that Jeannie Rose was safe from me," he said, "and look how easily I can get the two of you back from… wherever it is you're hiding." His cold grin widened.

"So you're going to go into the police station," said Kitty, "go back to the cells, break out Flicker… and kill her?"

Crane raised his eyebrows. "Yes," he said. His grin grew even wider. "And after that, I'm going to find your daughter… and steal her away from wherever it is she's hiding."

"You'll never get Jeannie Rose," said Kitty, starting to panic slightly. "She… she's safe from you."

Crane stared at her, taking in her features, looking her up and down. Then, slowly, he got up and crossed to Kitty, getting right up in her face, so that their faces nearly touched. "No one," he said in barely above a whisper, "is safe from me."

. . .

"…And that's why Terry and I started disagreeing about it in the first place," Grace explained, raising her penciled-on eyebrows. "I mean, I love bottle-nosed dolphins, and so does he, but… we just couldn't agree on whales." She let out a deep sigh, as if what she were discussing were something deeply distressing. "I just find them so fascinating," she said, gesturing with her hands so the rings on her plump fingers flashed in the light of the Lounge. "Don't you? I mean, don't you just love Shamu?"

"Oh, yes," said Cobblepot, distracted, only half-listening. "Quite so. Fascinating creatures."

"What's _your_ favourite kind of whale?" Grace kept pressing the subject. "I love Orca whales." She put a hand on his arm. "Let me guess, your favourite is the Killer Whale, isn't it?"

"I…" Cobblepot started to say, when suddenly he heard the sound of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony coming from the pocket of his slacks. He frowned slightly as he pulled out his mobile phone and checked the Caller ID. He had not been expecting a call. He cleared his throat, looking up at Grace, and answered, "I dislike the beasts, actually. They seem to have a rather unfortunate appetite."

"What do you mean?" Grace asked. "You can't hate an animal for being a _carnivore._"

"I don't hate them for being _carnivores,_" Cobblepot said, trying to remember if he had forgotten something important. Jeanette usually did not call him for meaningless chatter. "I don't hate them at all. I just wish they wouldn't be such _savages_ in choosing their prey."

"Well, if it were up to them, I'm sure they would only eat fish, as they do in captivity," Grace answered. "But out in the wild, they have to eat what they can in order to survive."

"Exactly," said Cobblepot, "including penguins."

Grace scoffed, smiling slightly. "Oh, Os," she said. "You always did have a soft spot for those flightless birds."

Cobblepot gave a half-listening nod of confirmation as he flipped open his phone and brought it to his ear. "Hello, Jeanette?" he asked. "What can I do for you, my dear?"

A sharp sigh of relief flooded the line with static for a moment when Os picked up the phone. Jeanette cast a half-irritated glance over her shoulder at Gordon, who didn't seem to have any intention of leaving her to have a private conversation, then zeroed in on the present. "Os, thank God you picked up," she gushed, letting out her relief in a rush.

She had to keep him on the line, she realized. One phone call meant one phone call. "Please, _please_, whatever you do, don't hang up the phone," she instructed, trying to keep her voice calm and failing miserably. It was awful, falling apart like this, especially in the face of something as non-threatening as a trip to prison. "I can't talk long. I'm at the police station downtown, with Officer James Gordon - not sure if you know him, but he's been in charge of the official Joker investigation." She took a deep breath. "It seems that they have some evidence linking me to several murders around the city."

Now came the difficult part. Jeanette wasn't one to ask for help on a whim, but this was serious. She had far too many things to take care of to have to deal with the inconvenience of jail time. "I don't know if there's anything you can do...I know you have strings, Os, just waiting to be tugged." She grinned at the flash of humor in the bad situation, then turned serious again. "Please tell me there's something."

She didn't have to mention that his reputation could be on the line, as well. If they did enough digging, the police might even be able to pick up a trail back to Os and his weapons dealing. Normally, she'd doubt that the limited abilities of the GPD would be able to do something as complicated as that, but she wasn't really in any position to argue their incompetency.

Cobblepot turned away from Grace, suddenly paying rapt attention to Jeanette. "The police station?" he said, concerned. "How in the world did you get down there? – No, nevermind, it's none of my business." He put a hand to his head, wracking his brain for any possible help he could get. "I don't know any Officer Gordon," he said, shaking his head. "I'm afraid I don't have any connections inside the GPD, my dear. I _am_ an illegal arms dealer, after all."

He put his elbows on the bar top, staring at the rows of bottles behind the bar as he thought. Then it hit him. "If you're at the police station, if they're trying to accuse you of anything, then you can ask to see a higher power," he told her. "Ask for Harvey Dent, the District Attorney." He took a breath. "I know it sounds like a futile idea, since Dent will do just about _anything_ to get basically _anyone_ thrown into a prison cell for life or more, but listen carefully, luv."

Cobblepot cleared his throat, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening in on his phone call. "When Harvey Dent arrives, don't give him any guff," he said. "But don't give him any information that might further incriminate you. What you want to do…" He glanced over his shoulder again, then went on in a slightly lowered voice, "Ask him about Shawn. Can you remember that name? _Shawn._ No last name." His voice returned to normal. "He'll know what you're talking about," he said. "If that doesn't lower your sentence…"

He took a breath. "Listen, darling," he said, "there isn't much I can do now that you're there, in the station. But I can try to help you a little more…" Instantly he thought of Napier. This Officer Gordon was in charge of the Joker case, so it would be a priceless irony if he were to show up at the police station. Or if Jeanette could lead the police to him… He was sure Napier could take care of himself, even if he were to be cornered.

"If they decide to question you," Cobblepot said, "give them the address where you stayed after your hotel room…" He paused. "…Exploded," he finished. "There will be something there that I think will definitely reduce your sentence tenfold." He hesitated, about to hang up the phone. "Is that all you need, luv?" he asked. "Or should I have someone blow up the station? Tally's off bartending duty for another half hour."

Jeanette nodded, before she realized Os wouldn't be able to see it over the phone. "Thanks," she said, "I owe you one." There was a short pause, then she added, "And take that literally."

She snapped the phone shut and handed it back to Gordon. She glanced at Dent for a moment, then decided to hold that card until later. She'd see what her sentence might be first, maybe even get a little one on one time with Mr. Dent. Then she could pull out the big guns.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

"Thank you," she told Gordon cordially. She looked at Jeannie Rose. "I just ask that you keep her safe." With a nod to herself, she looked back up. "Now, that questioning?"

Gordon caught the phone and slipped it back into his pocket with a nod. "Right," he said. He looked at Jeannie Rose, then back up at Jeanette. "Well, we can't take her into the interrogation room with us," he said, thinking. "She might be disruptive, or cause you to withhold evidence." He cleared his throat. "I know I wouldn't want to talk about all the things I've done on the force in front of my little girl," he said in a slightly lower voice. He looked over at Jeannie Rose again, biting his lip, then said, "I'm going to leave you with a nice lady named Miss Dawes for now, all right?"

Dent looked over at Gordon in surprise. "But Rachel has to do the questioning," he said.

Gordon raised his eyebrows, looking over at Dent. "I am more than capable of questioning a witness, Harvey," he said. "I am in the force, after all."

"Oh, one of those good-cop-bad-cop routines?" Dent scoffed.

Gordon took a breath, turning back to Jeanette. "No," he said, shaking his head and offering a reassuring smile. "Just good cop." He bent down to Jeannie Rose's level and held out his hand for her. "Come on," he said. "I'm going to take you to Miss Dawes. You'll like her… she's a nice lady."

Jeannie Rose looked at Gordon, then at his hand, and then turned away, burying her face in Jeanette's leg. "No," she insisted.

Gordon frowned slightly, standing, and turned to Dent. "Go get Rachel," he instructed him.

"What?" asked Dent, thrown.

"You heard me," insisted Gordon. "Go get Rachel."

Dent looked at Jeannie Rose, then at Jeanette, and then back at Gordon. Then, with a noise of slight disgust, he turned and started back towards the holding cells. Gordon watched him go, then turned back to Jeanette. "Before I take you back there, is there anything you'd like to say?" he asked. "You've had your phone call, and under the Miranda Rights you have the right to remain silent, but…" He checked the clock up on the wall of the station. "I have a funeral to get to in about an hour, and I really don't want to have to put you in the holding cells." He winced slightly. "I don't think they'd agree with you."

Just then, the double-doors leading to the holding cells opened and Rachel entered, Dent following behind her, hands in his pockets. She stopped beside Gordon, looking at him, and he pointed to the little girl at Jeanette's side. Rachel stared at the girl, then back at Gordon. "What do you want me to do?" she asked.

"Just take care of her for about an hour or so," said Gordon. "Entertain her, make her happy." He looked up at Rachel, serious. "And see if you can get any information from her while you're at it," he said in almost a whisper, taking care not to let Jeanette hear him. He turned back to Jeanette with the same smile as before, and raised his eyebrows. "Rachel will take good care of the girl," he assured her. "I promise."

"Come here, sweetheart," said Rachel, crouching to be on Jeannie Rose's level. "Come on, I won't bite. I just want to talk to you for a bit."

Jeannie Rose turned and looked at Rachel, still somewhat hesitant, clinging to Jeanette's hand. She sniffled, taking the folds of one corner of her little pink dress in her fist as she moved back and forth slightly, conflicted. She looked up at Jeanette, then back at Rachel. Rachel seemed like a nice lady, just as Officer Gordon had said, and she knew that she could trust Officer Gordon; he had done nothing but try to help her mother and herself. Even now, he was just confused. That was something that Jeanette had taught her… if someone who Jeannie Rose knew was really a good person was doing something hurtful, they were just confused… that was all.

"Come on, sweetie," Rachel cooed, holding out her hands. "Won't you come to me?"

Jeannie Rose stared at Rachel for a long moment, then looked up at Jeanette again. She watched Jeanette's expression for a moment, and then her gaze went back to Rachel. She let go of Jeanette's hand and moved hesitantly towards Rachel, finally stopping in front of her, her expression curious but cautious. "You seem like a nice lady," she stated.

Rachel smiled. "Well, I try to be," she answered. She took Jeannie Rose's hands in hers and stared into her dark eyes. "We're going to have a little girl-time while Officer Gordon is talking to…" She paused, her eyes straying to rest on Jeanette. Then she looked back at Jeannie Rose. "The lady you were with." Jeannie Rose nodded in understanding. Rachel smiled at her, then stood, picking her up and holding her on her hip. Jeannie Rose glanced over her shoulder at Jeanette one last time before Rachel turned and started walking away.

"Think of it as practice," Dent joked with a smile. Rachel turned, gave him a look, then turned back and walked away towards the play-room. Dent turned back to Jeanette, hands still in his pockets, and frowned. "Now that all that nonsense is taken care of," he said with a huff of breath, "we can get down to the _nitty-gritty._"

"Sure," Gordon agreed half-heartedly. He took Jeanette's arm and led her towards the double-doors, then through them, past the holding cells, and into the interrogation hall. He put a hand to the door, waiting for Dent to get into the observation room and allow him access, and finally the door opened with a buzz and a hiss and Gordon led Jeanette inside.

"Please, take a seat," he said, indicating towards the table and two chairs. It seemed strange, to him, that they would be having two interrogations, one almost right after the other. He sat himself down across from Jeanette and folded his arms on the table-top with a sigh. "So," he said, staring at her with an honest, open expression, "what you're looking at is life in County, by direction of the District Attourney." He unclipped a pair of handcuffs from his belt and held them up for her to see, then set them down on the interrogation table between them and looked back up at her. "Personally, I dislike County," he told her, "and I would much rather see the Joker take that sentence than you."

His blue eyes moved up to meet her dark ones. "What can you tell me about the Joker?" he asked.

Jeanette didn't trust Dawes one second with Jeannie Rose, but she was out of options at the moment. She was quiet and obedient all the way to the interviewing room in the back.

Or the Cave, as she thought of it, looking around. The lighting was dim at best and threw monstrous shadows on the walls from Gordon's and her own dark forms. She watched the walls for a moment, trying to locate the two-way mirror she _knew_ was there, but finally gave up.

"Well..." she began, "I know the Joker has a wife. Or had one. Her name's Kitty." She had to hide a grin; this might be entertaining. She was sure the police already had this information. "They have a daughter, probably five years old...oh, that's right, the girl out there," she corrected herself with a mild grin at her supposed forgetfulness. "I think Dr. Crane kidnapped Kitty a while back; she's probably with him right now. Let's see...she's got sort of mousy brown hair, blue eyes...she's quite shy, really. The girl takes after her in looks, but certainly not in personality. As for the Joker, well..." She frowned. "I know he's killed some people around town."

There was a pause, as she sorted out what she'd already said, before she sat back in her chair with a content smile on her face that she sincerely hoped would infuriated the cop.

Gordon nodded along with what Jeanette was saying, every so often glancing towards the two-way mirror, to where he knew Dent was listening in. They already knew everything that the woman had told him, and all of the information was useless. He looked back at Jeanette, observing her. She knew exactly what she was doing, and it was starting to make Gordon wonder what she thought she was accomplishing by doing it. He frowned slightly, leaning forwards towards her on the table.

"That's all very interesting," he said, nodding, "but it's not really going to help us, and therefore it isn't really going to help you. I need you to tell me –" But he was cut off by the sound of his phone ringing in his pocket. He paused, then dug into his pocket for the phone, pulling it out and looking at the number. It was the number of the police station, so, holding up a finger to Jeanette to request a moment aside, he flipped open the phone and put it to his ear. "Gordon," he said, strictly-business.

Gordon listened for a long moment, his expression darkening as he heard what the policeman on the other end was telling him. "Okay," he said, sounding slightly rushed, "get a team together, Kevlar vests, semi-automatics, the whole shebang. Pull out all the big guns, literally and figuratively. We're going to take…" He paused, glancing back at Jeanette, as if she were going to help him make an important decision. Then he turned away from her again. "Take all but one or two officers with us. They can hold down the fort while we're gone." He let out a breath. "There's no one too dangerous, or… spectacularly important being held here," he added in a low, somewhat embarrassed voice.

He nodded again, listening, then said, "All right, I'm on my way." Gordon closed the phone and stood from the chair, looking over at Jeanette as he stashed the phone in his pocket. "We got a call," he said. "A sighting of the Joker, and a suspected illegal arms dealing ring that apparently operates from within the Iceberg Lounge." He glanced towards the two-way mirror again, then back at Jeanette. "I've heard of stranger things," he said with a sigh. "And I was always a little wary of the people who went there. It's a ritzy place… come to think of it, that would be the perfect cover for criminal activity."

Gordon scratched his head, then indicated for Jeanette to stand. "Come on," he said. "I'm sorry to have to do this to you, but I'm going to have to put you in one of the holding cells until we can confirm whether or not this is a legitimate sighting and bust." He took Jeanette's arm and led her to the door, which opened with a buzz and hiss. As soon as he stepped out of the room, he was met by Harvey Dent, who looked a bit anxious.

"There's really nothing at the Iceberg Lounge," he told Gordon, trying to sound sure of himself but falling a little short. "I've had… people check there. I go there, myself, and the owner is really not the type of man who deals arms in his spare time." He looked at Jeanette, as if for some kind of support, then laughed nervously. "I mean, the man collects jewellery and name-brand clothing. He wouldn't go for something as _dirty_ and… _violent_ as _arms dealing_."

"It sounds like a pretty good cover, actually," Gordon answered, leading Jeanette past Dent towards the holding cells. "He probably flounces around like a flaming homosexual as well, doesn't he?"

Dent swallowed, starting to wring his hands slightly. "I'm pretty sure he _is_ gay," he replied, sounding totally honest.

"Yeah?" asked Gordon, pushing open the double-doors that led to the holding cells. "When was the last time you actually saw him with a man?" He opened the door of one of the holding cells and urged Jeanette inside, then closed the door and instantly locked it. "Sorry for being short with you," he apologized to Jeanette, "but this is really important. I have to go." He turned and started walking towards the front of the police station, and, with one last, worried look back at Jeanette, Dent followed.

"Believe me, Gordon," he said, starting to sound more nervous now, "you aren't going to find anything at the Iceberg Lounge. There's really nothing there."

"Then why should it matter if I look?" Gordon asked, unbuttoning and pulling off his blue jacket. He set the jacket aside on his desk, then pulled a ring of keys from his belt and, with one of them, opened a side door in the wall of the police station. He opened the door and pulled out a Kevlar vest, which he slipped on over his white under-shirt, then pulled his jacket back on and re-buttoned it. Then he turned back to Dent. "Whatever he's hiding there, you obviously don't want us to find it, Harvey. We're going to find it, but I'll see if I can't pull a few strings to get your friend at the Lounge out of a little time behind bars."

Gordon sighed, then checked the clock on the wall. "Damn," he swore under his breath. "I hope this doesn't make me late for the funeral." He looked back up at Dent. "Go back to your office, Harvey," he told him. "Maybe you can start pulling some strings there. Or maybe you can do something _useful_." Then he turned away from Dent and started out of the station to where a squadron of police cars were already screeching off, their sirens blaring.

Dent stood in the front of the nearly-abandoned police station, feeling very alone. He scoffed, propping his hands on his hips as he stared after Gordon. "Do something useful," he spat. "That's funny, coming from the director of the biggest bunch of clowns in Gotham city." He folded his arms, then, after a moment, turned and looked at the young officer sitting at the front desk, who was staring at him. "What're _you_ looking at?" he snapped.

The young police officer instantly went back to typing at his computer. Dent turned away from him again, smug. "That's what I _thought,_" he said.

. . .

"Please, come quickly," Crane finished with an exaggerated air of urgency. "Please, before he hurts someone." He looked up, and his eyes locked with Kitty's. "Yes, I think he's here to buy arms from the owner, as I said," he continued. "Now please come quickly!" And with that, he closed the phone, grinning smugly at Kitty. "Oh, don't look at me like that," he said. "You know just as well as I that they were going to figure it out one of these days."

"He was a good person," said Kitty.

"He was a criminal," retorted Crane.

"You bought from him," replied Kitty. "That makes you worse than a criminal – that makes you a criminal and an accomplice, not to mention what you might do with that gun."

Crane pulled out the gun and cocked it, and instantly Kitty went silent. "Yes," he said slowly. "Thank you for reminding me… what I might do with this gun." He stared at her for a long moment, then looked up at Goodhart. "With any luck," he said, "the entire police force will be here within moments. Then we can go to the police station and retrieve our old friend." A cruel grin split his face. "I have missed her so," he said.

"You're horrible," Kitty hissed.

"You gave me the idea, my dear," Crane countered. "If anyone's to blame for Flicker's misfortune, it's you." He relaxed the hammer of the handgun and tucked it back in his belt with a deep exhale. Then, the sound of a wailing siren caught his ear, and then another, and another, until an overwhelming cacophony of blaring sirens came screaming around the corner of the street, heading for the Iceberg Lounge. Crane took a step back into the darkness of the alley they were standing in as the squad cars pulled up to the front of the Lounge and policemen began pouring out of them, storming the Lounge.

Crane raised his eyebrows and looked over at his other two companions. "Ready to go?" he asked.


	60. Chapter FiftyNine

_Damn it, Os!_ Jeanette leaned back against the wall of the cell, too jumpy to think about sitting down. It was just peachy that he'd gone and blown his cover. If she was _insanely_ lucky, there would be no evidence at the Lounge linking her to him; if she was unlucky, she'd be imprisoned for the rest of her life. A small part of her mind was very curious - a bit _too_ curious, in fact - about the Joker sighting; was it real, or just a hoax? She shoved that aside for the moment, though, and went back to fretting about Ozzie.

Carly had looked up at the sound of someone else approaching the holding cells. She'd just been thinking how odd it must be to have three people come in in such a short time when she caught sight of an olive-skinned woman with dark hair.

It sparked a memory that was so recent, yet so elusive, that it was driving Carly nuts.

"Hey," she called, hoping this newbie would be more cordial than Hale, who continued to mutter quietly and glare out the window. "Do I know you?"

Jeanette looked up, searching for the origin of the voice. When she found it, her jaw dropped. "Flicker?"

There was a moment of silence before Flick's screaming started.

"GOD DAMN IT!" she yelled, throwing herself at the bars of her cell. She bounced off with a clang, but grabbed them and held fast. Thomas looked up, startled, from his brooding and inched as far away from the insane girl as possible. He cast a worried glance towards the front of the station, mentally summoning the guards but too cowed to actually say anything.

Flicker, meanwhile, couldn't say enough. "YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO FUCKIN' KEEP HER SAFE!" she howled, eyes enormous and crazed in her pale face. "AND YOU LET HIM GET TO HER. _AGAIN._ WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?" She wailed, an eerie sound that somehow held all of her frustration about Kitty _and_ Brian's situation, then withered a bit, some of the tension going out of her arms.

Jeanette's look was cold. "And you did any better?" she asked, propping her hands on her hips and moving closer to the edge of her cell. "You could've gotten her away any time. But you just _had_ to stick around Crane. What were _you_ thinking?" She heard some guards coming from the front of the station, and glanced nervously at Thomas. "Now shut up, or we'll both be in bigger trouble than we already are." She moved back to the bench and sat primly on it, acting as if she and Flicker had never spoken.

When the guards finally entered the holding chamber, Flicker still stood glaring at Jeanette. "Is there a problem?" the younger one asked, directing the question towards Jeanette, who looked like the more mentally sound of the two. Jeanette glanced up, innocently meeting the guard's gaze. Then she locked eyes with Flicker, and her expression hardened.

"Not at all."

The guards looked at each other, shrugged, and headed back to the front, and the cells were silent once more.

. . .

Cobblepot inhaled agitatedly on his cigarette, which was starting to burn low, as he stared at the rows of bottles behind the counter. Maggie was cleaning the bar-top, humming to herself, and let out a sigh as she inspected the shiny wood counter. "It never seems to get quite clean," she said, putting the hand that was not holding the cleaning-cloth on her hip and staring at her handiwork. She looked up at Cobblepot, a slight frown creasing her face. "Os," she said, concerned, "are you okay?"

"Hm?" Cobblepot looked up at her from his worried trance, his eyes meeting Maggie's, and instantly he looked away, waving a hand in her direction. "Oh, yes," he said, trying to sound carefree. "I'm perfectly fine, my dear. Never been better."

Maggie stared at him for a long moment, then started cleaning the counter again. Cobblepot looked down at his dwindling cigarette, then back up at her. "Actually, Maggie," he started to say, "there was something I had wanted to –"

"POLICE! EVERYONE GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR!"

Cobblepot and Maggie both looked up in shock as the doors of the Iceberg Lounge burst open and a flood of uniformed policemen with guns came pouring inside. Maggie instantly dropped her rag and got on the floor, but before Cobblepot could react, Gordon had grabbed him, pushed him against the bar, and cuffed his hands behind his back. "You have the right to remain silent," Gordon informed him. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. We have a warrant to search the premises. Any incriminating materials found will be confiscated."

Gordon turned away from Cobblepot and indicated for the other policemen to search the place. "Look for the Joker!" he instructed. "Make sure he doesn't leave!"

"The Joker?!" coughed Cobblepot, attempting to turn around to face Gordon. "The Joker isn't here… he hasn't been here for _days!_"

"Why didn't you call us when he was here?" Gordon insisted.

"We didn't know it was him until after he left," Maggie put in, standing up behind the bar. "He wasn't wearing his makeup."

Gordon stared at her for a long moment, then turned and watched as his officers flooded upstairs to the little hidden card-room, and as a group of them moved into the back room, cleverly hidden behind one of the curtains on the walls of the Lounge. Meanwhile, a group of other officers were checking the faces of all of the sparse customers in the Lounge, looking for the Joker. A few moments later, one of the officers came down from the upstairs room, shaking his head. "There's nothing up there, sir," he reported. The officers checking faces also looked up at him, shaking their heads.

Gordon turned towards the back room, waiting expectantly for the officers to emerge. Maggie watched the doorway, too, anxious as well, and a slight sweat was beginning to appear on Cobblepot's brow. Then, a long moment later, an officer emerged from the back room, shaking his head. "There's nothing back there but crates full of bottles," he reported. "Looks like supplies for any old bar."

Instantly, Gordon unlocked the handcuffs from Cobblepot's wrists and let him go, taking a step back from him. Cobblepot frowned darkly as he massaged his wrists and glared at Gordon. "I'm so sorry for the mix-up, sir," Gordon said, clicking the handcuffs back onto his belt. "We were told that the Joker had been spotted here, and that this place was a rumoured illegal arms-dealing ring –"

"By whom?" Cobblepot demanded. "Warren White?" He scoffed, massaging his wrists. "You're lucky I don't report this to your superior," he said darkly. He glanced back at Maggie, then looked at Gordon again. "Are you just going to stand there, looking daft?" he demanded. "You don't really need to be here anymore, do you?"

Gordon swallowed, looking away sheepishly, and then, suddenly, a look of horrified revelation crossed his face. "Oh my god," he said. He looked up at Cobblepot, eyes wide. "We've been tricked," he said. Cobblepot frowned, confused. Gordon looked away, shaking his head. "We've been set up," Gordon said, louder. He turned away from Cobblepot, rushing towards the doors.

"We need to get back to the station, now!" he shouted, and disappeared out the door, the other officers close behind him. There was a screeching of tires, and within a few moments, the policemen were gone.

Cobblepot frowned after Gordon for another moment, massaging his wrists. Maggie moved up behind him, hesitated, and then cleared her throat. Cobblepot turned to look at her, and Maggie asked, "Hey, um, Os… where'd you put the guns?"

Cobblepot paused, then smiled. "What guns?" he asked playfully.

. . .

Fox was the only one in the chapel, sitting in the very middle of the front row of chairs, staring at the closed casket wherein lay his sister, Jessica. He sighed and folded his hands together, resting his forehead against them. He had not slept well last night, knowing that today was the funeral. The clock on the wall struck one pm, and Fox looked up at it. The viewing did not start for another hour and a half, and after that, the funeral. The whole thing, the entire ceremony, would be over before eight o' clock. Then he would have to bury the past with his sister and go back to work at WayneTech.

Fox looked up at the closed casket, resting his chin on his folded hands, his elbows resting on his knees. "Goddamn it, Jessica," he whispered. "I _told_ you, I _said_ you shouldn't take a job at Arkham, I _told_ you it was too dangerous…" He bowed his head again, overwhelmed with emotion. "Goddamn it, Jessica," he said again, quieter.

Just then, a noise made him look up. A young man, perhaps in his thirties, had entered the chapel, looking nervous but determined. He paused when he saw Fox, then started towards him. The young man was short, hardly over five-foot-seven, and he had wide brown eyes that made him look startled, like a rabbit. He had a nervous air about him, and his small mouth hung slightly open, as if he were about to say something, but it did nothing for him except accentuate his concaved buck teeth. His copper hair was cropped short and styled with a slight cowlick in the front, though it was obviously thinning quickly. The man would probably be bald by the age of fifty, Fox guessed.

The young man moved to Fox and sat down beside him, folding his hands together in his lap and staring at the casket. He fidgeted for a moment, twiddling his thumbs, then turned to Fox and offered him his hand to shake. "Reece," he said. "Coleman Reece."

Fox stared at Reece, looked down at his hand, then back up at his face, frowning. "You're a little late, son," he said. "The ambulance you think you're chasing left without you a long time ago."

Reece looked confused for a moment, then licked his lips and shook his head. "N-no, sir," he said, a slight stutter in his voice, "I'm not a lawyer." He paused, adjusting his tie nervously, and then went on, "I was actually interested in applying for the job opening at Wayne Enterprises." He indicated Fox. "I asked around a little bit, and they directed me to you. They told me you were in charge of all of Mister Wayne's, um…" He cleared his throat. "Employees."

Reece took a deep breath, his brown eyes straying as he tried to remember an obviously well-rehearsed monologue. "I heard about the death of the accountant, and I thought it would be a good opportunity for me to apply for the job opening," he said, sounding mechanical and determined. "I have years of experience in accounting, and a degree from NYU in –"

"Tetch isn't dead for three days and already someone's jumping on his job?" Fox asked, in near disbelief.

Reece's mouth hung open as he tried to regain his composure, having been cut off in the middle of his great monologue. He took a breath, wetting his lips again as his eyes darted back and forth nervously, then pursed his lips and frowned, looking at Fox. If there was one thing Fox could say about this young man, it was that he had a very expressive face. "I'm sorry… about Mister Tetch," he said haltingly, his lower jaw working in a furious attempt to make something up on the spur of the moment. "But, um…" He looked down into his lap, as if his speech were written there, trying to remember where he had left off. Then he looked back up at Fox. "I have years of experience in accounting, and a degree from NYU in Business -"

"Listen, Mister… Reece, was it?" Fox said, looking over at him.

"Reece, Coleman Reece," Reece agreed, nodding.

"Right. Well, Mister Reece," Fox said. He put a hand on the young man's shoulder, then indicated towards the casket. "You see that?" he asked. Reece nodded, looking confused. Fox smiled bitterly at him. "That's my sister," he told him.

Reece looked horrified. He turned to Fox, his eyes wide, and stammered, "I… I-I'm so sorry, Mister Fox, I… I-I r-really didn't know, I just…"

"That's okay, Mister Reece," said Fox. "But… is it possible that we could discuss this some other time?" He raised his eyebrows. "Now is a really bad time," he added.

Reece's mouth opened and closed like a fish, but no words came out. Then, in an embarrassed rush, he got up from his chair and started in a hurried shuffle towards the doors of the chapel. Fox watched him go, a little amused.

"I'll put in a good word for you with Mister Wayne!" he called after him, but Reece was already gone.

. . .

The door had been locked when he had arrived, so he had broken off the handle and let himself in. It was not like Jeanette did not have the money to fix it, and besides, she knew better than to try to lock him out of her apartment. The first thing he noticed, however, upon stepping inside was how empty the place felt. He stood in the middle of the front-room, looking around. There was the couch, where he and Jeanette had sat prior to making love in the guest bedroom. He put a hand on the back of the couch, thinking, then looked up. The door of the bedroom where Jeannie Rose had slept was shut; he went over, opened it, and looked inside. It, too, was totally empty.

Napier let himself into the room and stared at the empty bed for a long moment, then sat down on it, his hands in his lap. It was not the fact that Jeanette was gone that confused him. She was flighty; she would pack up and leave at the first sign of trouble. It never ceased to amaze him, however, how many places she had at her disposure. Then again, he thought, when you were in the mob, the money was self-replenishing, and staying put was never a viable option. He stared at his hands in his lap. He had given Jeanette the opportunity to leave her life of crime, to leave Gotham, to take Jeannie Rose and the three of them would leave the country. Then again, that had been before he had known that his wife was still alive…

He stood from the bed, exiting the bedroom, and stepped out into the front-room again, and from there he moved to the guest bedroom. The sheets were still tangled from where he and Jeanette had tussled in them, and he put his hands on the messy bedsheets, as if trying to evoke some kind of emotion, or get some kind of clue as to where Jeanette had gone. After a moment, he removed his hands, having felt nothing but deep, sickening guilt. Napier backed away from the bed, moving to the door again.

Not one trace. Not one. Jeanette had disappeared completely, and had taken his daughter with her. She had had no right to do that, he told himself angrily – who did she think she was, the girl's mother? The thought only served to make Napier angrier. He looked over towards the couch, the sudden urge to flip it overwhelming him, but he held himself back. If he ever wanted to get his daughter back, he would have to learn to keep some semblance of control over his temper. He put his hands to his head, running his fingers through his dirty hair, and sighed heavily.

"Breath, Jack," he told himself, trying to slow his pulse. "Just breathe…" He let his hands fall back to his sides, and closed his eyes, taking a deep, settling breath. When he opened his eyes, he found himself looking at Julio, who was standing in the doorway of the apartment, his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

"I take it she wasn't here, huh?" he asked.

Napier glanced over his shoulder, then shook his head. "She's moved on again," he said with a heavy sigh. He cracked the knuckles of his right hand, then his left, then put his hands distractedly on his hips, not really sure what to do with them, since he was not destroying anything or wielding a weapon of some sort. It seemed strange, to him, this method of pacifism, but Julio said it was the only way he would get to see his daughter again, so it was worth a try. He looked over at the couch again, studying it, then back up at Julio. "She took my daughter with her," he said.

"Yeah," agreed Julio, "well, duh. It's not like she's gonna leave a five-year-old girl on her own. 'Specially with _psychos_ runnin' around tryin' to get her."

"I'm not a psycho," Napier told him, frowning.

Julio shrugged. "Who said I was talkin' about _you_, _ese?_" he asked. He cleared his throat. "So, who might know where she went?" he asked. "I assume you really want to get your daughter back."

"Yeah, I do," Napier agreed. He looked down at the floor, thinking. There must be someone who knew where Jeanette would go… Then it struck him. He looked back up at Julio. "Oswald Cobblepot," he said.

"_Gezhundteit,_" Julio said, his brow furrowing slightly.

"No, that's the name of the owner of the Iceberg Lounge," said Napier. "He and Jeanette are like… some kind of friends. She might have told him where she was going." He took a breath. "She did last time… let's hope she did it again this time."

Julio's frown deepened. "So you been playing hide-and-seek with this woman for a while, huh?" he asked, raising one eyebrow. "You ever get the hint that she might be just not that into you?" Napier chose to ignore Julio's comment, instead walking out the door past him. Julio raised his eyebrows. "That don't mean _you_ can't be into _her_," he added. He paused, closing the door behind him, and put his hands back in his pockets, starting to follow Napier. "And for some reason, I get the feeling that you _have_ been _into her…_ if you know what I mean."

Napier stopped short in his tracks, paused, and then turned to look at Julio, an odd, somewhat trapped look on his face. "You are a sick little man, you know that?" he asked.

"So you _did_ fuck her!" Julio said, triumphant.

Napier clenched his jaw and turned back around, walking away again at a slightly faster pace. "It's okay, man," Julio called after him, not bothering to pick up his pace. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me." He chuckled slightly. "And somehow I don't think she's going to be bragging about the experience too much, either," he added, but Napier had already turned a corner and disappeared from view.

. . .

Rachel sat in a small plastic chair in the playroom, one leg crossed over the other, her hands folded over her knees as she watched Jeannie Rose playing half-heartedly with the toys. There were not really many toys to choose from, Rachel realized, but Jeannie Rose was not complaining. At the moment, she was changing the dress of one of the plastic female dolls, laying out the clothes carefully as she picked which one to dress the doll in. Rachel took a breath, observing her, and then asked, "Have you ever met your father before this year?"

Jeannie Rose looked up at Rachel, interested, then shook her head and went back to putting the dress on the doll. "No," she said, sounding only half-interested in the conversation. "My mommie didn't talk about my daddy much, either. She really didn't want to have anything to do with anybody." Jeannie Rose picked up the male doll and studied its face, staring hard at it, as if something about it fascinated her. "My mommie was afraid of people," she concluded.

Rachel raised her eyebrows. "Which people?" she asked.

Jeannie Rose shrugged, setting the man-doll back down and attending to the female doll again. "People," she answered simply. She looked up at Rachel. "My mommie was afraid of going outside, 'cause she was afraid she'd run into people she knew." She looked back at the doll. "She didn't want to have to talk to the people she knew," she said with a sigh.

Rachel's brow furrowed in slight confusion. "People she knew?" she asked. "But… Kitty doesn't know anybody. At least, not that she can remember." She leaned forward towards Jeannie Rose slightly. "Are you sure that was the reason she didn't want to leave the house?"

Jeannie Rose looked up at her again, seeming a little put off. "There was somebody, once," she said. "My mommie was walking down the street, and they said hello to her… and she said hello back, like they were friends." She looked back at the doll again, running her fingers through its hair, then looked up at Rachel again. "Then she tried to act like she didn't know who they were, and she ended up leaving really fast…" She shook her head, looking back at the doll. "We didn't leave the house very much after that," she said.

Rachel paused a moment, trying to discern what Jeannie Rose was telling her, but as soon as she opened her mouth the door of the playroom burst open and a wave of thick, brown smoke began billowing in, along with the sounds of the station's alarm going off. She looked up just as the sprinkler system began going off. Rachel coughed, reaching out a hand for Jeannie Rose. Her eyes were stinging, and she could barely breathe. Yet there was something familiar about the sensation, though she could not quite place it…

Then, she heard Jeannie Rose scream.

"Sweetie!" she shouted over the noise, trying to fumble her way through the smoke towards the sound of the little girl's screaming. She wished she could call the girl by name, but no one had told her what it was. She coughed, pushing smoke out of her line of vision, and called, "Sweetheart!" Rachel pushed her way towards the door of the playroom, her hands searching at the little girl's level, but she found nothing.

As soon as Rachel stepped out of the playroom, she saw that the rest of the station was also overrun with the thick, brown smoke, though it had cleared a bit. The station, she then saw, had been destroyed; every phone line had been cut, every bulb broken, and all of the police paperwork was burning in a large rubbish-bin in the middle of the station. Rachel coughed again, rubbing her eyes, and looked back towards the double-doors that led to the holding cells and the interrogation room, and moved towards them, opening them and stepping into the room that contained the holding cells.

In one of the cells, every police officer that had been left at the station sat, huddled, eyes wide, muttering something unintelligible, some holding onto the bars so tightly that their knuckles were white, others curled up in the fetal position. The prisoners were gone. Rachel stared in horror at the sight, then quickly made her way to the interrogation room. The sprinkler system was not going off in here. No alarm was sounding. Nothing in the room, itself seemed to have been disturbed, and when she checked the recording equipment in the room behind the two-way mirror, it still seemed to be intact, as well.

Rachel turned and was about to leave when she suddenly noticed something. The microphone, which had been turned off when she, Gordon, and Dent had left the room, was turned on. She frowned, moving back to the recording machine, and picked up the headphones, slipping them on over her ears. Then she pressed the play button.

"Hello, listener," came the smooth voice over the headphones. The voice made Rachel's skin crawl, but she kept listening. "I hope someone finds this recording in a timely manner… or else it won't really be of any use to anyone." Rachel could detect a sickening satisfaction in his voice. She pulled up a chair and sat down, listening in morbid fascination to what had obviously been recorded over the witnesses' confessions. Of course he had done that on purpose; he had known exactly what he was doing.

"First of all," he said, "I would like to thank Officer Gordon for helping me carry out my little scheme so perfectly. I must commend you, Officer, on being first-rate. Not many others would have responded so quickly, and… so effectively." He chuckled, coldly. "Secondly," he said, "and take note of this, because this is important… tell the Joker that I have his wife and daughter, and unless he comes out and finds me, something terrible may happen to one… or both… of them."

There was a pause, and then another voice came onto the recording. "Jack," said Kitty's voice, sounding scared but hesitant, "please… he has Jeannie Rose…" And then a third voice on the recording, "Daddy!"

Then the recording ended.

Rachel stared in shock at the recording device for a long moment, then slipped the headphones off of her ears and set them down in front of her. She was too shaken to do anything. All she could do was stare. Crane had Kitty and Jeannie Rose, and unless they told the Joker to find him, something horrible was going to happen to them. Rachel shook her head slowly. There was nothing she could do. How were they going to get hold of the Joker? It was all a meticulously-planned disaster, and Rachel had become a part of it.

Rachel looked over at the microphone for a long moment, then shut it off.

. . .

It was perfectly reasonable for Jeanette to have thrown a tantrum. Any self-respecting thirty-year-old would have lashed out, kicking and screaming, like a possessed toddler had they been in her position. Kidnapped and handcuffed once again by the man who seemed intent upon making her life a living hell. She had lost it and gone after Crane with intention to kill.

Thus, it was perfectly reasonable for Goodhart to have knocked her out. Which he did with great enthusiasm.

The man had gotten used to taking orders from Crane...for now. This situation was almost fun. He'd finally be able to get revenge on the blond hellion who'd mocked him to no end while they'd been working together - he glanced at Flicker, morbid satisfaction in his sunken eyes - and even smack Jeanette around a bit. Things seemed finally to be working in his favor.

Flicker was none so pleased. She followed, shuddering quietly, behind Crane as if nothing had changed since she'd been caught by the cops. But something had. It was painfully clear. Crane knew somehow that she'd sold him out to the police, and he was going to kill her for it, just as she'd feared.

She glanced at Kitty, who was holding her daughter tenderly, then gulped and aimed her gaze at the ground.

When they finally reached their destination - a cold, deserted warehouse near the docks - she finally spoke up, voice hauntingly meek to her own ears. "What...what's going on?"

Goodhart dumped Jeanette unceremoniously into a corner and turned, more calm and collected than he'd been since his escape from Arkham. He considered Flicker's question, keeping an eye on Kitty. Not that the woman would run off. Crane had her under his thumb. "We just broke you out of jail," he explained patiently, twisting the ring on his finger as he thought. "And now we're going to kill you." He looked at Crane, ignoring Flicker's panicked breathing that could almost be mistaken for sobs. "Correct?"

Thomas had stuck with the strategy of "be silent and maybe they won't notice me" until now. At Goodhart's words, however, he froze and blanched. "Wait, kill? What do you mean, kill?" He looked around; no one seemed nearly as shocked by this concept as he was. "And exactly who are you people?"

"No," Crane said almost instantaneously, looking up at Goodhart. "Not… quite… yet." His eyes met Flicker's, and he raised his eyebrows. He took a breath. "I have a few things to attend to before we can get around to killing her," he said, his voice careless and cold. "Though I really don't see why I should prolong the torture… for us, that is." He started to reach for his handgun, when suddenly his gaze caught Thomas', and he stopped short. He, as leader of the ragtag little group, had decided to take the man along on the spur of the moment, but now that they had actually stopped and he had a chance to look the man over, there was something uncannily familiar about him.

Crane stared at Thomas with slitted eyes. "I know you," he said, studying him. "Yes, you're the reporter, the one from the Times who did all those…" he took a disgusted breath, "…stories, about the Joker and his great prowess as the scourge of Gotham" He sneered, unimpressed. "You obviously know more about him than anyone else does," he deduced. "And more than you let on. He's got you in his pocket, his messenger sending news of his great and terrible triumphs to the townspeople, trying to frighten them." He lowered his face, staring at Thomas over the tops of his glasses. "No one knows fear better than I do," he said in a lower voice.

Crane paused, taking out Gerald's cell phone from his pocket, and stared at it, then turned and looked over his shoulder at Goodhart. "You," he said. "Look after these four." He indicated the four women. "This man and I have to have a little talk." He turned to leave, expecting Thomas to follow, then paused again, turning back towards Goodhart. "On second thought," he said, reaching behind his back and pulling out his handgun, "you'd better take this." He tossed the handgun to Goodhart, and stared at him icily for a long moment afterwards. "Try not to blow your face off with it," he instructed coldly. "And don't hurt Napier's wife or the child. The other two…" He looked over at Jeanette and Flicker, cocked an eyebrow, and then turned away again, leading Thomas from the room.

As soon as he was out of the room, he turned to Thomas. "Input your cell number in here," he instructed him, handing him Gerald's phone. "Your real one. And put your work number in there as well. I want to be able to contact you at any time." He waited patiently as Thomas did something with the phone, then held out his hand to take it back. "Get the Joker to come to me," he told Thomas as he slipped the phone into his breast pocket, "and I'll give you a really good story. Not more of the tabloid trash you've been degrading yourself by writing." He raised his eyebrows. "You're a very good writer," he said. "It's a pity you decided to waste your talent on something like the Joker."

Crane stared at Thomas for another long moment, frowning slightly. "Wait a moment," he said, studying his face. "I've seen you somewhere else, as well." He put a thoughtful hand to his chin, thinking, and then a look of recognition came into his eyes. "Oh, I remember," he said, sounding horribly triumphant all of a sudden, "you were at the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. Yes… you were the one who was so hesitant to admit you had a…" he took a satisfied pause, "…problem." A cruel grin began to curve the edges of his full mouth. "Well," he said, looking away from Thomas, though clearly still addressing him, "that's all right, I mean…" He looked over at him again. "It is anonymous, after all, isn't it?"

Crane took a deep breath, then pulled the cell phone from his pocket, looking at it. Then he looked up at Thomas. "I expect you'll be attending the next AA meeting," he said slowly. "The date and time has been rescheduled for tomorrow, at six, in the…" He paused, thinking. "In the old furniture factory two blocks east of where the Radisson Hotel used to be. The abandoned one." Before Thomas could react, he said, "There was a fire in the old Social Centre. Gerald had to move locations." He shrugged. "And, in his old age, Gerald has gotten rather paranoid… he wanted to hold the meeting someplace where no one would find the group and learn about everyone's, uh… dilemmas."

The cold smirk returned to his face, and he switched the hand the phone was in. "I expect you to be at that meeting," he told Thomas, flipping open the phone and looking at it. "Unless you want everyone you know to know about your…" His crystalline blue eyes returned to Thomas' face, and his wicked grin widened. "Affliction." He snapped the phone shut again, holding it by his side, and sighed. "But I don't expect any trouble from you," he said in a mockingly trusting voice. He smiled at Thomas. "You are free to go now," he told him. "Just remember, don't tell anyone but the Joker about what you've seen and heard. And don't forget, tomorrow, six o' clock, in the old furniture factory."

Crane watched Thomas leave, then flipped open the cellular phone and began going through the contacts. He stopped on one, and a slight smirk hinted at his mouth as he selected it and put the phone to his ear. He waited a moment, then answered, "Yes, hello, uh, Eddie, this is Gerald… yes, well, I'm a little hoarse at the moment, but I have to tell you something important. Oh, yes, very important." His smirk widened. "I was just calling to tell you that the next AA meeting's date has been changed to tomorrow at six, in the furniture factory two blocks east of where the Radisson Hotel used to be. Yes, the abandoned one." He listened for a moment, then nodded. "I'm trying to get hold of everyone who usually comes to the meetings, but I don't know if I have all their numbers, so… could you see if you could get in contact with everyone who usually comes, and tell them about the schedule change?" He grinned, wicked. "Thank you, Eddie," he said, the slightest cold, sarcastic edge in his faux friendly voice. "I look forward to seeing you, too…"

Crane closed the phone and let out a short, cruel chuckle. "…You fucking idiot," he finished.

. . .

"O-okay, thanks, Gerald," said Eddie with an agreeable nod, "goodbye." He hung up his phone and placed it back on his bedside table with a sigh, turning back to the outfit he had laid out for his date with Maria. He smiled as he smoothed out the dress shirt and slacks, and nodded in satisfaction to himself. "Tonight is gonna be great," he told himself with a huge smile. He looked away from the outfit, a wistful grin on his face. "Me an' Miss Maria," he said dreamily. "Who woulda thought?"

Just then, a slender orange tabby leapt up onto the bed and began walking on top of the outfit, purring as she did so. She settled down right in the middle of the dress-shirt, curling her tail around her in a satisfied manner. Eddie let out an exclamation and picked up the cat, dusting off any stray orange cat-hairs that might have gotten on his clean, pressed shirt, then carried the cat over to one of the chairs in the bedroom, sitting down in the chair and setting the still-purring tabby on his lap. He scratched the tabby-cat under the chin, and her purring grew louder. Eddie smiled down at the cat as he scratched behind her ears.

"You'll never guess what happened to me, Evelyn," he said, stroking the cat's soft head. "I got a date with the most amazing girl. She's… oh, I don't even know how to describe her." He sighed happily, and Evelyn meowed at him, staring at him expectantly with large, green eyes. Eddie chuckled. "Well, all right, then. She's smart, and she's pretty, and she's… she's just amazing, Evelyn." Evelyn purred and pushed her head under Eddie's hand, demanding for him to continue petting her. He stroked her head, scratching behind her ears, and then lifted the cat and looked at her. "I can't just sit here," he told her, holding her up at eye level. "I have to get ready! There's only about six hours left until the date!"

He set Evelyn down on the floor, getting back up and moving back to the bed, where he checked his clothes again, making sure there was not a single wrinkle in them, or a strand of cat hair. Then he moved into the little bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror. "Hello, Miss Maria," he said, smiling at his reflection. "How are you doing this evening? Won't you take a seat? – Oh, let me get that for you." He pretended to pull out a chair and seat someone. "What will you be having? I'll have that, too." He smiled at himself in the mirror. "Yes, it is a lovely evening, isn't it?" he said. "And you're looking just lovely as well."

Eddie sighed, satisfied, then moved back into the bedroom and instantly let out a cry of dismay. "Evelyn!" he exclaimed, lifting the tabby off of his dress shirt, where she had once again curled up, purring. He held the cat against his chest, stroking her, and cuddled up with her. "Don't worry," he assured her, "no matter how much I like Maria, you'll always be my number-one lady." He held her up at eye level again, smiling at her. "Okay?" he asked. She meowed in response, and he kissed her on top of her head.

"Good kitty," he said.

. . .

Goodhart waited a long time after Crane left the room, facing the door through which he'd exited. Then he slowly turned back to the women, looking down at the gun in his hands.

He could do it right now. He could get back at Crane for ordering him about by _breaking_ those orders, and showing him who was really boss. He could rid himself of Flicker, who'd been a nuisance since the day they met. And the dark-haired one, Jeanette, was beginning to be an irritating handful, as well. His head slowly lifted, epiphany in his eyes.

It was then that Jeanette awoke, groaning at the pain in her head. She scrambled to her feet when she realized where she was and what was happening, dully noting that the handcuffs had been removed. Her hand automatically reached for her handbag, where she was sure her gun was still nestled safely, perfectly placed for emergency situations such as these...

Before she remembered that the police at the station had taken her handbag and gun as evidence.

She looked around at Kitty and Flicker and Jeannie Rose, then up at Goodhart. There was insanity in his eyes, even more thinly veiled than Crane's, and it was enough to tell her that there wasn't a single thing she could do to stop whatever was about to happen.

Goodhart cocked the gun in his hand, looking carefully between the three women, ignoring Jeannie Rose for now. Then he shrugged. "Biggest threat first, then."

He brought his aim to bear on Jeanette and fired.

Flicker winced at the shocked, horrified expression on Jeanette's face as she staggered backwards, blinking in surprise. A blossom of deep red was spreading quickly over the left side of her chest; the bullet hole was lost in the blood. Then she dropped to the ground.

"STOP!" Flick shrieked, taking a step towards Jeanette. That woman was probably the best chance that they'd had at escape. And now...now...

Goodhart's calm demeanor cracked for a moment. "Don't worry, you're last," he said, voice cracking as a hysterical smile lit on his face. "I'm going to really have to savor killing you, for all the shit you put me through." Then he turned the gun towards Kitty.

Flicker saw the gun move and followed her instinct; she jumped into Kitty and pushed her and the little girl aside. The bullet erupted from the gun with a muffled crack, the silencer doing its job.. A burning pain exploded in the left half of Flicker's chest, and she fell to the ground with a gasp.

Goodhart stared at her, mouth hanging open in shock and gun still in the air. His arm drifted down. "Why the hell...?" She'd jumped in front of the bullet. But she wasn't a good person. She'd started fires, done drugs, probably been an alcoholic...Why would she have done that? Goodhart looked at the gun in his hand, then at the two women lying on the ground, bleeding. It didn't make sense. He whimpered and dropped the weapon, putting a hand on either side of his head and sinking to the ground like a child.

Flicker - no, _Carly_ - clawed at the front of her tank top and looked down. Blood was pulsing out of her chest at an alarming rate, centering around a dark hole. She tried to put a hand on the wound to stop the flow, but her fingers slipped on her wet skin. She was going to die. A sudden peace settled over her. This was it.

She pulled the lighter out of her pocket. That lighter...her love, her hate, her drug, her tool...She stared at it for only a moment before sliding it a few feet away, where it halted before Kitty's feet. Then she turned her head and stared up at the woman's face. She felt tears well up in her eyes; suddenly, it wasn't Kitty's face that she saw, it was her brother's. "Brian..." she said, blinking slowly and laboriously. Breathing was getting a little difficult, and she could feel her heartbeat pounding in her chest. She put out a hand and stuck her thumb up, like when they were little kids, to say she was a-okay. Her brother smiled, and his face faded away, leaving Kitty's frightened one again. Carly tried to grin in an effort to calm the woman down, but felt herself slipping; her heartbeat was fading into the background, a dull thud that slowed with every passing second. She took a deep, final breath, and murmured, "Thank you."

Everything went black.

Kitty stood in shock, staring at the two women and all the blood, and, without thinking, she instantly began to scream. She set down Jeannie Rose, a little more roughly than she meant to, and ran first a few steps towards Flicker, then Jeanette, and finally collapsed to her knees, screaming, tears streaming down her face. She looked up at Goodhart, taking deep breaths, and screamed, "YOU MONSTER! LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE! LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE!"

Kitty tried to scramble to her feet, but she was unable to, and she crawled, panicked, towards Jeanette, picking up the woman's head and putting it in her lap. "No," she sobbed. "No, you can't die, you can't…" She looked up, trying to catch her breath. There was no escape from this place, and without medical help, Jeanette would surely die. "I… I'll get help, I promise…" She sniffled, looking back down at Jeanette, and then let out a sob, holding her tightly. "You can't leave me," she begged, "please… Jeannie Rose and I, we'll be all alone again if you leave us…"

Jeannie Rose stood where she had been placed down, a bit shaken still. She looked at her mother, and then at the two women. Miss Jeanette, and the other nice lady who had taken care of her while she had been a part of the group that time before… She reached down and picked up the lighter, inspecting it, then turned towards the short-haired girl, staring at her. Then she moved towards her, eyes wide, face set in a solemn line. She paused when she reached the woman, then crouched down next to her and held out the lighter to her. "You dropped this," she told her. The woman did not respond. Jeannie Rose nudged her arm, then shook her slightly. Then she looked up at Kitty. "She won't wake up, Mommie," she said.

Kitty looked up towards Jeannie Rose and held out a hand towards her. "Baby, don't touch her," she said. She bit her lip, trying not to let her daughter see the helpless tears already streaming down her pale face. "Come here," she said. "Come on, I need you…" She looked back at Jeanette. "Baby, I need you to take off your socks for me. Can you do that, honey?" She tried to steady her breath and think straight as Jeannie Rose looked confused for a moment, then pulled off her shoes, and then her socks, and handed them to her mother. "Thank you, baby," she said, taking them.

Kitty put the white socks over the wound, and almost instantly, they turned a shade of scarlet. "Okay, now, I'm going to need you to apply pressure to this while Mommie tries to get someone to care, all right?" She tried to smile wanly at her daughter, but it was a failing gesture. She let out an involuntary sob as she lowered Jeanette's head back to the ground. Jeannie Rose put both hands over the blood-soaked socks and looked up at her mother. Then she reached up, handing something to Kitty. Kitty took it from her, and realized that it was the blood-stained lighter that Flicker had given them. She looked back at her daughter and nodded, clutching it tightly.

"Thank you, baby," she said.

Kitty turned from her daughter and moved past Goodhart. Crane was nowhere to be seen, and Goodhart did not seem to be doing anything to stop her from leaving. Now was her chance to run. She hesitated, turning to look back at Jeannie Rose and Jeanette. If she could find help, any kind of help, then she might be able to save them all. But it would mean leaving her daughter in the hands of psychopaths. She steeled herself, and was about to turn back to leave when she found herself face-to-face with Crane. The lighter fell from her hands and clattered to the floor.

"What the hell is going on here?" Crane demanded. He looked past Kitty, to where Goodhart was kneeling on the floor, his head in his hands, the two bloody bodies around him, and the handgun on the floor. With a look of pure loathing, Crane pushed harshly past Kitty and strode up to Goodhart, his lenses flashing as he glared down at the man in absolute, angry hatred. "_Céard é do bharúil atá ar bun agat?!_" he demanded. "Did we not just establish that I wanted to wait a bit longer until we killed Flicker? _Agus cad an gnéas é atá tú bharúil a dhéanamh maraigh ise?!_" He pointed accusingly towards Jeanette, to where Jeannie Rose was still applying pressure to the wound. He looked down towards where the gun sat on the floor, and picked it up, holding it at his side.

Kitty stared at Crane, terrified, and started to quietly slip towards the exit, when he turned and pointed the gun at her. "_Ní deis áit ar bith réchúiseach lus míonla clé!_" he demanded. Kitty instantly stopped in her tracks. Crane took a deep breath, trying to settle himself, then let it out slowly and turned towards Goodhart, holding the gun at level with the big man's forehead. "I can't have people disobeying my direct orders," he told him. He cocked back the hammer of the gun and neared it to Charles' forehead.

"No! Stop!"

Crane looked up in surprise at Kitty. She had picked back up the lighter and was staring at him with wide, scared eyes. "Please," she begged. "No more death."

Crane stared at her for a long moment, frowning slightly. He removed the gun from Goodhart's forehead as he considered her, and took a deep breath. Then he delivered a swift, bruising kick to Goodhart's ribs. Clearing his throat, he straightened his tie, then smoothed out the front of his jacket. Then he looked over at Goodhart again. "You should be thanking Kitty instead of God," he sneered. "She's the one who saved your miserable life." He looked up at Kitty, then. "Don't expect me to do you any more favours," he told her coldly. He paused, then looked over at Flicker's dead body, then over at Jeannie Rose, still tending to Jeanette, and then back at Kitty. "Looks like it's just the four of us now," he said.

"_Five_ of us," Jeannie Rose corrected him under her breath, keeping the pressure on the wound.


	61. Chapter Sixty

The chapel bell tolled, hollow and dreary, as the small gathered congregation huddled around the cold hole that had been dug into the earth, watching the coffin being lowered into it. Fox stared with empty eyes, his whole face set into a determined mask of impassive stolidity. He would not cry, he told himself. He had cried enough, and if he let himself continue to mourn for his sister's passing, he may never get over it. Fox folded his hands in front of him and clenched his teeth, staring as the casket was slowly lowered into the ground and the bell from the chapel tolled again. He would never see Jessica again, he realized. This was really the end.

Harvey Dent let out a slightly irritated sigh, and then checked his watch. This funeral had been going on for over two hours now, and he wanted to leave. He had done his duty by coming and sitting through the service they had arranged for Jessica Fox, and now the burial was finally here, and he was ready for the casket to be in the ground and for all of them to be dismissed. He glanced over at Rachel, standing beside him, wearing a stylishly cocked hat with a thin, webbed black veil over her face and a sleek black dress that complimented her tall, curvy form, and the slightest guilty smile crossed his face.

Dent turned back towards the burial, trying to concentrate on the service, clearing his throat and fixing a suitably solemn expression on his face. He would never tell a soul, but for more than half of the funeral, he had been imagining Rachel wearing only her hat, a lacy black bra and underwear, and a pair of black garters. He knew he should feel badly for being so disrespectful of the service, but he was tired and cold and irritable, and the dreary mood of the event was doing nothing to life his spirits. He checked his watch again, then went back to watching the burial with a grim frown.

Gordon had tried to appear at least slightly respectful for the funeral. He had arrived late, winded, still in his policeman's uniform, but he had dragged a comb through his graying hair a few times, and no one had said a word about his appearance, so he assumed that no one had noticed. He bowed his head, folding his hands behind him as he watched the procession with mournful eyes. He had seen so many deaths in his line of work, but he had attended very few funerals, and it was always heartbreaking to see the relatives of the deceased. Gordon looked up and saw Fox, and let out a sigh, hanging his head again.

Alfred stared at Fox, standing all alone, and glanced over at Wayne, raising his eyebrows. Wayne saw his look, and then looked at Fox, as well. "Alfred, can you tell Mister Fox that, if he ever needs anything, I'm here for him?" he asked. He looked back up at Alfred. "Hopefully it'll make him feel a little better."

"Yes, of course, Master Wayne," Alfred replied, nodding. He looked over at Fox again, and then started to move towards the man. Fox did not notice Alfred as he came to stand beside him, and for a moment the two men just stood in silence. Then Alfred turned to Fox. "Jessica was a good person, Lucius," he said. He took a breath, considering what to say next. "We will all miss her very much."

Fox nodded. "Yes," he said, "especially me."

Alfred nodded as well. There was another pause. Then Alfred said, "Master Bruce wanted me to tell you that if you ever need anything, he will be there to offer any assistance he may." He cleared his throat. "He means it, too," he added, raising his eyebrows. He turned away from Fox, staring at the casket, and sighed. "How I wish Miss Jessica hadn't died," he said longingly.

Fox nodded slowly, only half-listening to what Alfred was saying. Then he turned to look at Alfred, tears that he was trying hard to hold back starting to shine in his eyes. "I never got to tell her goodbye, Alfred," he told him. He looked back towards the lowering casket, shaking his head. "I never got to tell her goodbye," he repeated, quieter. A lump formed in his throat, and he tried to swallow it back down, but he could feel himself starting to choke up. Then, suddenly, he felt another hand on his, and he looked over to see that Alfred had taken his hand in his own and was holding it, concealed between the two men's long black coats. Fox looked down at their two hands together, then up at Alfred, who offered him a sad, though reassuring smile.

"I'm still here for you," he told him in a low voice.

Fox paused a moment, and then a small smile began to hint at the corners of his mouth, and he turned back to the slowly lowering casket, which had almost vanished from view by now. Perhaps things would not turn out to be so bad after all. Jessica was gone, but Fox still had friends and people who loved him.

Fox looked back up at Alfred, smiling, and whispered, "Thank you."

. . .

Maria stalked into the police station, putting her cell phone away. She'd just checked the time on it; still a few hours until her date. Hopefully, her business with Gordon wouldn't take _nearly_ that long.

She'd been meaning to stop by since Gerald had reported his son's whereabouts to Gordon two days ago. She could only assume that they'd caught him and put him in strict police custody. She just wanted to do a short follow-up with Gordon, to make sure that they'd covered any loose ends.

Seeing Kitty would be nice, too.

But finding the station in worse condition than she'd ever seen it, even when the Joker had ravaged it. She paused in the doorway. The phone lines were cut - all of them, as far as she could see - and officers were standing around, looking lost. She couldn't find Gordon anywhere in the mess. After a moment of thought, she pulled out her cell phone again and dialed his number.

. . .

After the funeral was finally over and the casket had been securely laid in the ground, everyone who had attended began to move away from the burial site, starting with Dent, then Rachel, and then everyone else began to slowly follow. Gordon cleared his throat and put his hands in his pockets, starting towards his police cruiser. He had taken time off of work to attend this funeral; he had not even used the excuse that he was there for security or police reasons, even though the victim had been an important person in both the Crane and Joker cases. He was just there as a friend, and as someone mourning a lost soul.

Gordon opened the door of his cruiser and was about to get in when he felt someone holding the door open, so he could not close it. He looked up to see Dent standing over him, looking down at him, worried. He paused a moment, then sighed. "There was nothing there," he reported.

Dent looked slightly surprised. "You looked everywhere?" he asked.

"It was a false call," Gordon said. "Someone set us up. We searched the whole place, but there were no weapons there, and no Joker." He pulled on his car door to shut it, but Dent kept it open. Gordon looked up at him, a little annoyed. "No one was injured, Harvey," he told him. "We just went in, looked around, and when we found nothing, we left."

Dent paused, then nodded, taking a breath. "Okay," he said, letting go of the door. He waved Gordon off. "You go on home to your family, Gordon," he said. He straightened his tie. "I'm going to head on over to the Iceberg, to see the owner, myself."

Gordon raised his eyebrows, then closed the door of his cruiser and turned the key in the ignition. Harvey Dent was unpredictable, and not very good at hiding his intensions, no matter what they were. He watched as Dent made his way back to Rachel, putting his hand on the small of her back as he led her to her car, then watched as she got in and drove away. Gordon shook his head, then put the car into Drive and started away, as well. What Dent did in his spare time was none of Gordon's business, as long as it was nothing that struck him as particularly illegal. In which case, Gordon thought, he would not be surprised.

Just then, Gordon's cell began to ring. He stopped at a red light and dug in his pocket for it, finally pulling it out and looking at the number. It was Maria. He flipped open the phone and held it to his ear, frowning. "Officer Gordon speaking," he said, business-like. "What's the matter, Maria? What's happened?" He let out a breath. "If you're at the station, I know it looks bad, but… it'll be okay, we'll fix it up in no time." He hoped he was telling the truth. The light turned green, and he started driving again. "Can I help you with anything else?" he asked.

"So _where_...are you keeping...Crane?" It was a painful struggle for Maria to keep her voice calm. She had gone outside the Station, off of some instinct that this may turn into a shouting match. And she didn't need a bunch of hopeless police officers staring at her, not today.

"You got a call from Gerald Crane a few days ago, right?" she asked, starting to pace. "Saturday, I think? About the location of his _son_, _Jonathan_ Crane?" She took a deep, calming breath. There was some sort of explanation for all of this. Crane couldn't have gotten away. Not again. Not when she'd _finally_ cornered him. "I'm sure you were keeping him at County, or maybe Arkham, or something..."

There was the possibility floating around the back of her mind. The one that suggested that Gordon had _never_ caught Crane, or that Gerald hadn't made the call that he'd told her he would. But that couldn't have happened. She'd given them all the information they needed to finally catch that son of a bitch, and if they hadn't...

Gordon stopped at a red light. He was totally speechless; Maria had caught him entirely by surprise. It was not that he had not been expecting her to call him to check up on the cases – of course she would want to know what was going on – but the questions she was asking were totally unexpected. "Who?" was the only thing Gordon could think to say. The red light turned green, and he started driving again, considering whether he should go to the station to talk to Maria in person or not. He cleared his throat, deciding that he had spent enough time away from home, and then set to the question at hand.

"Nobody by the name of Gerald Crane called us," he reported. "We haven't received any information on the whereabouts of Doctor Crane. He's simply vanished off the radar." He took a breath, considering whether or not he should tell Maria about the incident at the police station, then decided it was probably for the best. "Crane… did… show up," he said, flicking on his turn signal and pausing at a street corner before turning onto a different street. He took a moment, then told her, "A woman turned up at the police station today. She had Kitty's little girl with her. We took the woman into custody for questioning, and the little girl I put in the care of Rachel Dawes."

He hesitated again, then went on, "While we were questioning the woman, we received an urgent 911 call from someone claiming to have seen the Joker, and that they may have uncovered an illegal underground arms-dealing ring. Naturally, we responded to the call… only to find out we'd been set up. The Joker had never been there, and there were no weapons to be found." He stopped at another red light, noting the slightly nervous looks of the people sitting around his cruiser in traffic. Lucky for them, he thought, he was off-duty. "When we got back to the police station, it was destroyed. You're probably there by now, I guess, which is why you're calling me to ask this question…"

The light turned green. Gordon switched hands the phone was in. "We didn't get Crane," he said. "If anything, Crane got _us_. He took all of the perpetrators we were holding in the cells, and he took the little girl. We don't know what he wants with them, but… he left a very sadistic message." From the street, Gordon turned into his neighbourhood, and began driving slowly towards his house. "He left us with a huge dilemma, because there's no way in hell the Joker would ever work with the GPD, even to catch Crane. We all know how well that worked out last time."

Gordon frowned; he did not still want to be discussing this topic when he entered the house, otherwise he would worry Sarah, Jimmy, Barbara… Olivia. He had not been spending enough time with his family, and the abduction of Kitty's daughter was just making him feel guiltier about it. "Listen, Maria," he said as he turned into his driveway, "we'll get this son of a bitch, one way or another. We'll get him, and we'll make him pay for everything he's done to all of us." He sighed, turning off his cruiser and unbuckling. "I'll see what I can do," he said with a sigh. "But tomorrow, Maria. Tonight, I'm tired. I just got out of a funeral, and I…" He paused. "I really need to see my wife and kids right now."

He opened the door of the cruiser and got out, shutting the door behind him. "Don't worry about it," he assured her. "We'll get him. He'll never know what hit him." He locked his cruiser and started for his front door. "I'll see you first thing tomorrow," he told her. Then he hung up the phone and turned back towards his house. He stared at the front door for a long moment, then let out a heavy breath of defeat.

"We're never gonna catch these nuts," he told himself in a sad undertone.

"FUCK YOU." Maria snapped her phone shut, shaking. She knew that Gordon wouldn't have heard her, but it made her feel better all the same to finally have said something. Even if she couldn't rightly blame the man for all that was happening, she felt fully justified in taking out some of her anger on him.

She knew when a case was hopeless. This was beyond even that. As she turned into traffic, Maria felt a strong urge to just up and move to a different county or state. _Country_, even. She'd do whatever it took to just get as far away from this hellhole as possible. Then that irritating little sense of morality kicked in, and she dug her nails into the steering wheel in irritation. She might still be able to help.

She could try to put all of this together and maybe make some sense of it, or catch something that one of the investigators had missed. It was a long shot, obviously - there was little or no chance that a stupid _author_ like herself would be able to outdo the police in what they did best - but at the moment it was the only thing that was keeping her from swerving into oncoming traffic. She took a deep, ragged breath, redid her ponytail at a red light, and settled back into the rut of determination into which she felt like she'd been permanently stuck.

. . .

Dent watched as Rachel left, hands in his pockets, then turned and started for his own car. He let out a sigh as he climbed into the driver's seat and shut the door, buckling himself. "Goddamn it, Os," he mumbled under his breath as he pulled his keys from his pocket and started the car. Dent put the car into Drive and headed out of the parking lot, pulling into traffic, and started towards the Iceberg Lounge. He checked the clock on the car's dashboard, frowning slightly. It was getting into the evening, and by this time, people would start coming into the Lounge, regardless of the events of earlier, especially if all the police activity had blown over without incident. It would give whatever goons and loons decided to inhabit the place a sense of security, knowing that the police had breezed over thousands, if not millions, of dollars worth of firearms without noticing a thing.

He finally made it across town to the Lounge, and pulled into one of the only remaining parking spots on the lot, then got out of his car and, locking it, headed towards the Lounge, itself. It was crowded inside, just as he had suspected, and a thin veil of smoke filled the place. There was no such thing as a 'smoking section' inside the Iceberg Lounge, and, though it did not particularly bother Harvey Dent, being a smoker, himself, he had heard people complain to Cobblepot about it, to which the man had coolly replied that if they were to open their own multi-million-dollar twenty-four-hour nightclub, they could restrict smoking as much as they pleased.

The thought brought a small smile to Dent's face. Cobblepot lived in his own reality, of sorts, and it never ceased to amuse Dent the things Cobblepot was capable of getting away with, even without Dent's help. Dent came and sat down at the bar, pulling his coin from his pocket and rubbing his thumb over the smooth surface as he waited for the bartender to notice him. Finally, when Tally came over and stared straight at him, Dent gave him a politician's grin. "I'll have a martini," he said, trying at humour, "dirty – shaken, not stirred." He gave a weak chuckle. Tally did not look amused. Dent cleared his throat. "Um, a martini, please," he said in a more serious voice. Tally stared at him for another moment, then mixed up the drink, dropped in an olive, and handed it to him. "Thanks," Dent said, taking a sip of the drink.

Dent set down his drink on the counter and stared at the little olive inside the glass, then looked back up at Tally. "I'm actually looking for Os," Dent told him. "Have you seen him lately?" Tally stared at Dent for another moment, then looked up and pointed across the room towards a small cluster of people. Dent glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at Tally and nodded. "Thanks," he said, getting up from the bar and taking his glass with him. Tally just glared at him, then returned to his bartending work.

Dent made his way across the smoky Lounge to the small gathering of people, and stood patiently on the outside, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet and taking another sip of his martini. Then, unable to hold in his anxiety any longer, he said, above the idle chatter, "Os!" Instantly the crowd cleared, and Dent found himself looking at a somewhat surprised-looking Cobblepot, holding a smoking cigarette. Dent smiled as soon as he saw the man. "Hey," he said. "I've been looking for you. I hear there was a police raid on this place earlier today?"

Cobblepot let out a sigh, and moved to Dent. "Walk with me," he said. Dent did as he was told. Cobblepot led him back to the bar and sat down on one of the stools. Dent sat beside him, staring at him intently like a dog looking at a bone. Cobblepot looked over at him, unenthused. "Your friend, Officer Gordon, came in here a little earlier," he said. "Apparently someone tipped him off that the Joker had been here in the past, and that this place was actually running an illegal arms-dealing industry." He let out a huff of breath. "The _nerve,_" he said, taking a drag on his cigarette.

"So where did you hide the guns?" Dent asked, curious.

Cobblepot exhaled a thin line of smoke. "I had a friend look after them for a bit," he said. "Somehow I just _knew_ this kind of thing would happen." He looked over at Dent. "This place is heating up more and more every day," he said, raising his eyebrows. "Gotham is getting even more cutthroat than before, and that's saying something."

"Yeah," agreed Dent. "That's why I keep a gun in my bedside table." He grinned. "It's the one I bought from you," he said. "I got it registered, so it's all good with the legal standings and whatnot."

"Good man," said Cobblepot, looking away and taking another drag of his cigarette. He let out a breath of smoke. "It must have been someone we know," he said, returning to the original topic at hand.

"Maybe it was White," Dent suggested.

"Oh, I had my suspicions, too," Cobblepot answered. "But then I really couldn't think of any reason for Warren to be mad at me. I mean, I've done nothing to him, that I can think of." He looked up to see Tally staring at him. "Can you think of anything?" he asked. Tally remained silent, continuing to stare at him. "No, I didn't think so," Cobblepot said in a lower voice, looking away.

"Who, then?" Dent asked.

Cobblepot shrugged, looking back at him. "I really have no idea," he said. "But I'm thinking it might have been someone who either has something against me… or wanted Gordon and his men away from the station."

Dent raised his eyebrows. "The station was ransacked as soon a Gordon left," he said. "They took the three people we had locked up in the holding cells."

"Three?" Cobblepot asked.

"Yeah," said Dent, "we had some Italian woman, an arsonist who'd been working with Crane, and a reporter from the Times."

"Thomas Hale?" Cobblepot looked surprised.

"That's him," said Dent. "Those three, as well as a little girl…"

"A little girl?" Cobblepot asked. "Brown-eyed girl, honey hair… Jeannie Rose, I think was her name?"

"Yeah, that's the one," said Dent, looking confused. "How did you know?"

"Oh, dear god," said Cobblepot, suddenly looking worried. "Now he's got all the cards."

"Who? What are you talking about, Os?" Dent demanded, getting upset. He began to spin his coin on the bartop in agitated anxiety.

"Listen," said Cobblepot, leaning towards Dent, "you didn't hear this from me, all right?" He sighed. "I'm not usually the one to spread gossip," he said, sounding slightly agitated. "And I don't know if I've got all the details right, but…" He turned, looking over his shoulder, and called, "Magpie! Maggie, could you come over here for a moment, please?"

Maggie looked surprised at being called over, but she moved towards the two men, her jewellery glittering in the moody light of the Lounge. She looked between the two of them, then finally settled on Cobblepot. "Yes, Os?" she asked.

"Crane got Jeannie Rose and Jeanette," Cobblepot told her. Then he indicated Dent. "Tell him about this whole mess."

Dent let his coin spin out and settle flat on the counter, then turned towards Maggie, who suddenly looked very important. She took a deep breath. "Crane has been looking for the Joker," she said. "He's got his wife hostage, and… from what I've heard, he got her pregnant." She looked at Cobblepot, as if for support of her statement, then looked back at Dent and went on, "He's using the little girl and the wife to get the Joker to come around. He wants to kill him, you know. I think he's just jealous, but there might be more behind it than just that."

Maggie arranged her mink shawl and sat on a barstool between the two men. "Jeanette is one of Os' most trusted clients," she told Dent. "We work on a first-name basis, only, and even if we didn't, it wouldn't be up to me to disclose any information about her… but apparently she and the Joker were in some kind of odd relationship in the time that he thought his wife was dead. Jeanette was also in custody of Kitty and Jeannie Rose at some point, and it was through Jeanette that the Joker actually met his daughter." A slight frown creased her face. "From what I hear, they were, uh… rather _more_ than friends."

"He fucked her," Cobblepot specified. He motioned towards Maggie again. "Please continue, my dear."

"Oh, um… right," Maggie said, sounding slightly taken aback. She turned towards Dent again. "When he learned that his wife was still alive, he went berserk. Apparently, from what I've heard, he tried to take his daughter away from Jeanette, and she wouldn't let him, because he was raving drunk at the time."

"So she took the little girl down to the police station, and they were both taken into custody," said Dent.

"And now Crane has them all, and is going to use them to get to the Joker," Cobblepot finished.

Dent pondered the situation for a moment, finishing his martini, and started to chew thoughtfully on the olive. Then he looked up at Cobblepot again. "How are your other friends, by the way?" he asked, swallowing. "That… blonde woman, and the man with the puppet. How are they?"

"Oh, you mean Gracie and Arnold!" Cobblepot exclaimed. "They're doing just fine. They're staying in the hotel just a few blocks from here. Arnold is set to perform tomorrow night. I thought it would be a good time for the two of you to make up for your little…" He paused. "Your little incident the other night," he said.

Dent hesitated, then waved it off. "Don't worry about it," he said. "I forgive him. He was just joking, and I took it too seriously." He chuckled. "He's good with that puppet," he said.

"Oh, yes," agreed Cobblepot with a laugh. "That, he is."

"All right, well, I'm going to head out now," said Dent, placing his empty glass on the counter and getting up from his bar stool. "I'll look further into this whole Crane deal in the morning. At the moment…" He chuckled. "I've got a little _personal business_ to do." He winked at Cobblepot, smiled amiably at Maggie, then turned and left the Lounge.

Maggie stared after him, then looked at Cobblepot. He looked at her as well, reading her expression. "He's fucking Rachel Dawes," he clarified.

"Oh," said Maggie, turning back again.

. . .

"We've looked everywhere," Napier said with a sigh, sitting down the stoop of an apartment complex and shaking his head. He looked up at Julio. "I've searched everywhere that they might have gone. There's only so many places in Gotham that someone with that kind of money would go to." He looked away, resting an elbow on one of his knees. "She's not about to lower herself to the level of near-poverty, just to disappear from me. I mean, if she wanted to do that, she would have done it before, right?" He looked over at Julio again. "Right?"

Julio shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Hey, man, don't look at me," he said. "I stay in one place, _ese._ I don't know nothing about her an' her… running-around-town shit."

Napier laced his fingers together, staring down at his hands. "She has to be running out of places to go," he said. "There was the hotel, but I destroyed that… then she had that apartment, but she wasn't there…" He held out his hands, palms-up. "There's not many other places she could've gone in Gotham." He shook his head, thinking, then took a deep breath, then looked back up at Julio. "Do you have any pot on you?" he asked. "I have a splitting headache."

Julio stared at him for a moment, then dug in his jeans-pocket and pulled out a small plastic baggie, which he tossed to Napier. Napier caught the bag and started to open it, then looked back up at Julio. "I owe you," he told him.

"Yeah, yeah," Julio said. He did not expect to get paid back for anything he gave Napier, but being around the Joker for extended periods of time and still having a pulse was enough of a grace. Julio paused, then looked over at Napier again. "She must have known you'd come looking for her," he said. "She has your daughter, after all. An' it's not like she's gonna try to spirit someone else's kid outta the country." He dug in his pocket again and pulled out a cheap lighter, tossing it to Napier as well. "You might need that," he said.

Napier caught the lighter and nodded to Julio. "Thanks," he said. He looked around and, seeing a wind-blown newspaper sitting in front of the apartment's door, he picked it up, tore out a square of paper, and started to roll up some of the marijuana in it. He twisted the end, then put it in his mouth, lit the tip of it, and inhaled. Napier held the breath in his lungs for a long moment, and then let it out slowly, coughing slightly.

Julio watched him for a moment, then looked away. "She's gotta have friends or something," he said. "I mean, somebody like her… someone's gonna notice when she goes someplace."

"Jeanette doesn't have any friends," Napier said, letting out another deep exhale. He looked up at Julio. "I asked her, once… something like that. She doesn't have any friends." He looked away, the joint lingering near his mouth. "She doesn't trust anyone, or want anyone to trust her." He took a deep drag on the joint, held it in, then let the languid smoke seep from his lips. "Apparently someone broke her heart a couple of years ago, so she doesn't want to get too close to anyone." He looked down at the slowly burning joint in his hand, raising his eyebrows. "It can get to be a real bitch when you're trying to find her."

Then a slight chuckle rose from his throat, and he brought the joint back to his lips, saying, "Then again, you could probably just follow the trail of bodies."

Julio scuffed his heel against the pavement, looking down at his worn shoes. Then he looked up at Napier again. "What about that one friend of hers, the one you mentioned?" he asked. "The one with the funny name. Cobble…"

"Cobblepot," Napier said. He bit his lip, and the smoke came out from his nose. "I could try, though I'm not sure she'd make the mistake of telling him where she was again." He raised his eyebrows. "She might not want him telling us where she went," he said.

"Telling _you,_" Julio corrected him. "Not me. I'm not a part of this."

Napier looked over at Julio, frowning slightly, then shrugged. "Fine," he said, taking another long drag of his joint. "I guess I'm in this on my own."

"Hey, _ese,_" said Julio, shrugging, "it's _your_ daughter, _your_ wife, and _your_ fuck-buddy."

"My _fuck-buddy?_" Napier asked, narrowing his eyes at Julio incredulously.

"You fucked her, didn't you?" Julio asked.

Napier frowned, looking away and taking a deep breath of the joint. "You are _way_ too hung up on that," he said, the smoke spilling from his mouth as he spoke. He brought the low-burning joint back to his lips and took another drag, then let out an exclamation and dropped it, shaking his hand. "Aow!" he said, "I burned my fucking fingers!" He stuck his forefinger in his mouth, sucking on it to try to make it feet better.

"Newspaper burns fast, man," Julio told him. "Next time, try using something thicker."

Napier took his fingers from his mouth and grunted, looking down at it. Then he wiped it off on his pants, looking back up at Julio. "Come on," he said, standing from the stoop, "let's go. We're gonna go visit Cobblepot, see if he knows where Jeanette is."

"_We?_" Julio asked. "You mean _you._"

"No, I mean _we,_" Napier said with an air of finality. "Come on."


	62. Chapter SixtyOne

Selina sat down at the bar of White's casino in an agitated huff and dropped her purse unceremoniously onto the counter, pulling out her cigarette case and taking a cigarette from inside it. She put the cigarette in her mouth, dug out her lighter from her purse, and instantly lit up, taking a long drag before letting out the smoke in a satisfied, slightly calmer exhale. "Stupid fucking…" she mumbled, but the rest of her complaint was cut off by her putting the cigarette back into her mouth and taking another drag on it.

"Shall I find Señor White for you, Señorita Kyle?" Rosa asked, moving over to Selina behind the bar.

The smoke from Selina's cigarette exploded from her mouth in a violent jet as she looked up at the mention of White's name. "Yeah, go get him," she said, indicating Rosa with her cigarette. "And while you've got him, tell him I said he can blow himself."

Rosa nodded, looking as if she had heard this suggestion a hundred times. "_Si,_ Señorita," she said, and started towards the end of the bar. Selina put her cigarette back into her mouth, taking a long drag. She frowned as she looked around at the throbbing lights, the pounding music, and the nearly-drowned-out sound of the slot machines in the background. She could barely see anything through the strobe lights and thick, smoky air. Just then, she heard someone sit down on the barstool next to her, and she turned.

"You're back," White said, sounding slightly surprised, raising his eyebrows. He took his cigar from between his teeth and grinned at her, slick as a fox. "I wasn't expecting you back until much later."

"Well, it looks like you're out of luck," Selina said, irked. She shoved her purse towards White. "I got what you wanted," she said. "It was too goddamn easy, Warren. I thought you said you wouldn't make me do that kind of thing again." She turned away from him, putting her cigarette back in her mouth. "It's just _insulting,_" she said, sounding melodramatic.

White looked inside the purse, putting his cigar back in his mouth, then up at Selina. "You made sure not to get anything on it?" he asked.

Selina slitted her eyes at him. "What d'you think I am, Warren?" she asked. "Stupid?"

"Well, a little out of practice, maybe," said White with a grin, setting the purse back on the counter. "But not stupid. Never stupid." He put a hand on her arm, and, after a moment, she reluctantly turned to look at him. "I was just making sure you weren't losing your touch, Selina," he assured her. "You really do mean a lot to me."

Selina hesitated, and then a soft smile came to her lips. "Thanks, Warren," she said.

White grinned at her, then took his hand off her arm. "Don't look _too_ far into it," he said, getting up from the barstool. As he started to walk away, he called over his shoulder, "I have to go make sure everything else is all set up now, but when I get back, I expect you to show me that you're not out of practice in _any_ regard, you got me?"

Selina scoffed and turned back to Rosa, putting her cigarette back in her mouth. She looked up at Rosa, frowning. "He's such a _pig,_" she said, shaking her head.

"_Si,_" Rosa agreed with a bored sigh, cleaning a glass.

. . .

Jeremiah Arkham was far too old to run his own asylum, and yet the incompetence of the previous directors had forced him to once again take up his position as the head of Arkham Asylum. Arkham had nothing against the asylum; he'd had the place built, himself, after all, and he enjoyed overseeing the inmates, because so many different interesting characters came into the place. A great many less ever left. It was, in a sense, Arkham's private zoo, but for the fact that he had never been able to carry out a conversation with a lion or a monkey, and the inmates of Arkham Asylum always had something interesting to say.

Looking back on his years overseeing the asylum, Arkham came to realize that a great many inmates had absolutely nothing wrong with them, and he only kept them there for his own amusement. Perhaps that was why Jeremiah Arkham had made Arkham Asylum so very easy to escape from. Those who disliked it there, or who felt that they really did not need the help that Arkham Asylum offered, were free to go at any time… providing they could break themselves out.

Arkham closed the file and put one bony hand on top of it with a sigh. His dark eyes lingered on it for a moment, and then he looked up, staring at the computerized roster. When Arkham had opened the Asylum, they had used the good old paper-and-pen method of keeping track of the loonies, but now, ever since the crazies of the city had gotten craftier and harder to catch, they had had to switch to computerized methods, to make sure no pyromaniac got hold of the records and destroyed years of hard work. Arkham took off his thin-wired glasses and set them down on the desk in front of him, on top of the file, and massaged his temples.

"Why must they always wreak havoc?" he asked aloud. His voice, which had apparently been a bass tone in his youth, was thin and cold. He picked up a newspaper displaying a Joker headline from the week before that was sitting beside the computer and dropped it into the rubbish-bin beside the desk. With a breath, he picked up his glasses and tucked one end into the collar of his shirt, then laced the tips of his fingers together and, leaning on his elbows on the desk, he rested his chin on his fingertips and stared at the computer screen. "Why can't they see that they're giving my asylum a bad name?"

It was true. Arkham Asylum had once been seen as a respectable kind of place, but now the name was whispered between people in either a tone of dread or one of cruel, bitter mockery. That was what this place had become, under the direction of Jonathan Crane, Arkham realized. A dreaded mockery.

"It will never do," Arkham said to himself.

The mockery had to end. The dread, he could live with. The only problem was, what could an old man, even one as ingenious as Jeremiah Arkham, do to bring the asylum back to the way it was in its glory days? Arkham looked around at the asylum and frowned. If anything, the first thing that needed to be done was a bit of redecorating. Perhaps a new coat of paint on the walls, and some cleaning up around the exterior. Arkham looked back at the computer, moving the mouse until the cursor rested on a folder called 'Low-Risk'.

There was nothing wrong with a bit of inmate labour.

. . .

Warren White sat down at the bar at the Iceberg Lounge with a grin and a heavy exhale. "Maggie," he said, calling her over, "couldja get me a drink? Martini, dirty, if you please." Maggie nodded and moved down to White, making his martini in front of him, then carefully stuck a toothpick through an olive and placed it gently on the lip of the glass, handing it to White. He smiled and winked at her, taking the glass from her. "Thanks, doll," he said. He took a sip of the martini and made a noise of exaggerated satisfaction. "Made just perfect, as always," he said.

"Thanks," said Maggie, unimpressed. "Were you wanting to talk to Os?"

"Naw," White said. "I'm here to talk to Tally." He chuckled gruffly, then shook his head. "I'm only playing with you, doll," he said. "Yeah, I'd like to talk to Cobblepot, but first, I wanna talk to you about a couple of important things…" He took another sip of his martini and grinned at her. "Why do you hang around this place, anyways?" he asked. "A good-lookin' broad like you… you could be a star, baby. Why do you insist on hanging around with an aging fag?"

Maggie stared at him for a long moment, saying nothing. Then she turned and started walking away. "I'll go get Os for you," Maggie said, cold.

White raised his eyebrows, the knowing grin slowly starting to fade from his face as he followed Maggie's progress out from behind the bar, watching as she disappeared into the crowded Lounge. "Eh," he grunted, pulling out his cigar case and taking out a fresh cigar. He pulled a lighter from his breast pocket and lit up, puffing on the cigar, before stashing away the lighter. "She's prob'ly queer, too." He took another sip of his martini, then turned when he heard a familiar voice engaging in mumbled conversation. "Cobblepot," he said, throwing open his arms with a sleazy grin. "My old associate. Business seems to be booming."

"That, it does, Warren," said Cobblepot, also sounding cold. He took a drag of his cigarette and let the smoke out slowly. "So why exactly did you want to come talk to me?" he asked.

"Why the icy front, Os?" White asked, a little too friendly. He indicated the barstool next to him. "Won't ya sit?"

"I'd rather stand," Cobblepot replied stiffly.

White was silent for a moment, unsure of how to respond, then grinned at Cobblepot again. "All right," he said, "I can live with that."

"What do you want, Warren?" Cobblepot asked, a little more firmly.

"I just wanted to patch things up with you, Os," White said, setting his martini glass down on the bar top and shrugging, his hands displayed palms-up. "I don't want us to have any more hard feelings towards one another. We used to be such good friends. How did we become enemies?"

"I blame _you,_" Cobblepot answered, straightforward, and took another drag on his cigarette.

"Sure, sure," White said, waving it off. "But let's put the past behind us, shall we? We've got so much in common, an'…"

"Like what?" Cobblepot asked, raising his eyebrows.

White paused, thrown. He bit his lip, thinking, then replied, "We both like… money."

"Right. Listen, Warren," Cobblepot checked his pocketwatch, "I've got something important to do at the moment, but I'll see if I can't get back to you in a bit… all right?" He looked up at White, offering him a faux amiable smile. Then he turned and started walking away, back towards the rest of the crowd, Maggie holding onto his arm, trailing behind him like an obedient dog.

"Hey Cobblepot!" White called after him, and Cobblepot turned. White indicated him with his cigar, giving him a wicked, knowing smile. "How are those friends of yours doing, by the way?" he asked.

Cobblepot frowned at him, then turned away again and disappeared into the crowd.

White scoffed, frowning, and turned back to the bar, picking up his martini and taking an agitated drink of it. "Fuckin' prick," he muttered. He tapped ashes from his cigar onto the bar top, rather than into the ashtray. "Him an' his carpet-munchin' broad can go to hell."

"No, no," Napier came and sat down beside White at the bar, leaning his elbows on the bar top as he looked over at the other man. "Maggie is straight. Trust me." Julio came and sat next to Napier at the bar, not looking at the two of them. He stared at the line of bottles behind the counter, considering them, as if they were suddenly very interesting. Napier half-grinned at White. "Remember me?" he asked.

White raised an eyebrow. "Sure I remember you," he answered. "I'm surprised you remember me. You was a little bit…"

"Yeah, I realize," Napier said, cutting him off. He shrugged. "I'm trying to quit," he added.

White nodded slowly, not quite believing him, still a little thrown off by his sudden appearance. "Sounds tough," he said.

"I'm surviving," Napier answered.

White nodded again. "Right," he said. He looked away a moment, then looked back at Napier. "So what are you doin' here?" he asked.

"I'm here to see Os," Napier replied.

"Aren't we all?" White muttered, putting his cigar back into his mouth. "Well, good luck with that." He started to turn away when he felt his shoulder grabbed by a strong hand. He turned to see that Napier had caught him and was holding him in place.

"I want to ask you something," Napier said. "While I've got you here."

White stared at him for a long moment, then settled back down on his bar stool. He was a bit nervous, but he was not about to let it show. "Okay," he said, putting his cigar back between his teeth. "Shoot."

"Your dogs," Napier said, leaning towards him on the bar counter.

"My dogs?" White asked. "What about 'em?"

"I want them," Napier told him plainly. "How much do you want for them?" He reached into his pocket and pulled out his crumpled wad of money. "I can offer you up to twenty-five-hundred for them."

White glanced down at the money in Napier's hand, then back up at his face, and laughed heartily. "What, are you fuckin' kidding me?" he asked, taking his cigar from his mouth. "Any one of my dogs is worth at least ten times that. Duke alone is worth millions." He looked away from Napier, shaking his head and wiping away tears of mirth from his eyes. "You really think I'm gonna sell you my dogs for that little shit-puddle of cash?"

Napier raised his eyebrows. "Well, no," he said. "I'm thinking you're going to give me your dogs for free." A knowing grin crossed his face as he stared, unblinking, at White, and he stashed the money back into his pocket. "I just thought I'd give you a chance to take the money." Then, with a tip of his head, he turned away from White and started walking away. Julio looked up, watching Napier walk away, then looked back at White, looking a little surprised.

"You a fuckin' _dead man_, _ese,_" he told him. Then he got up from the bar as well and started to walk away.

. . .

Dent chuckled, pleased with himself, as he parked his car outside his apartment and got out, moving around to the other side of the car to let Rachel out of the passenger's side. She smiled at him as she swung her long legs out of the car and stood, letting him close the door behind her. He held out his arm for her to take hold of, and she slipped her hand in the crook of his arm, resting her cheek on his shoulder. "Thank you for making me feel better," she told him.

"Oh, it's my pleasure," he answered, taking out his apartment key and leading her up the stairs to the front of the complex. "I couldn't stand to see you looking so sad. And yet…" He opened the door for her and let her in. "…It looks so sexy on you."

Rachel giggled as Dent let himself in and the door closed behind him. "Well, I appreciate it," she said, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm again. "I never could take funerals… they always make me so sad."

"Yeah, I hate funerals, too," Dent agreed. "Always so damn depressing. When I die, I want to have a happy funeral, with, say… balloons, and face-painting."

"And clowns?" Rachel asked, turning to look at him.

"No, not clowns," Dent said, shaking his head. "I hate clowns. Clowns scare me."

Rachel giggled again. "The great Harvey Dent, afraid of clowns," she said.

"And spiders," Dent added. "And snakes… really anything creepy-crawly and venomous. Also, large crowds…"

They reached the door of Dent's apartment, and he started to put the key in the lock to open the door when he realized that it was already open. Dent paused, looking at Rachel, then turned back to the door and slowly opened it and looked inside. He instantly wished he had not.

Everything had been destroyed. The tables had been overturned, the vases that had sat atop them smashed on the floor, the flowers everywhere. Paintings had been taken down from the walls, armchairs had been tipped onto their sides, and every drawer in the house had been pulled out and emptied of its contents. Dent put a hand in his head, not believing what he was seeing. His house had been robbed before, but not like this. Never like this. This was a massacre, almost as if someone had been looking for something he had hidden.

"Oh my god," Dent choked, unsure what else to say.

"What happened?" Rachel asked, staring at the wreckage as well. She looked up at Dent. "Do you know what they might have been looking for?" she asked.

"I… I don't…" Dent shook his head. "I keep all my valuables in the bank, in a safe, I… I don't keep any cash here, or…" He looked around in bewildered horror. "I don't know," he said faintly. He moved into the room, being careful to step over the shattered glass of a picture frame, which he bent to pick up. It was a picture of himself and Rachel. Totally in shock, Dent picked up a small table that had been overturned and set the picture down on it. Then he turned towards the kitchen, to see how much damage had been done there.

The cabinets in the kitchen hung open, the contents littering the tiled floor, and all the drawers had been pulled out as well, silverware spread out all over the kitchen. Dent stepped over a particularly wicked-looking steak knife as he surveyed the kitchen in shock.

"What the hell…?" he said in barely above a whisper.

He followed the trail of destruction out of the kitchen, through the living-room, until he got to his bedroom. The sheets had been ripped from the bed, the down pillows torn to shreds, the room covered in a thin, soft snow of feathers. Dent picked up a mangled pillow-case and held it at his side, in shock. He began to slowly make his way towards the bed. Rachel entered the bedroom as well, looking around in bewilderment at the wreckage. Then she looked at Dent.

"Is anything missing?" she asked.

Dent shook his head slowly. "Nothing yet," he answered. He started towards his bedside table, the only piece of furniture in the whole house that did not seem to have been disturbed. He reached out a hand, took a steadying breath, then opened the drawer.

His handgun was gone.

"Shit!" Dent spun, putting his hands to his head as he started to pace. Rachel watched him, concerned.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"My gun!" Dent exclaimed, indicating the empty drawer. "My goddamn gun is missing! They stole my goddamn gun!"

"Harvey, calm down," Rachel tried to cajole him, "listen, we can report this to the police, and they'll take care of it…"

"The police?!" Dent exclaimed, turning on her. "We can't go to the police with this, they'll… they'll…"

"They'll _what?__What,_ Harvey?" Rachel demanded. She folded her arms. "Look, I don't care what kind of stuff you're dealing with… if you're double-dealing with convicts under the table, or something, but…"

Dent went back to pacing agitatedly. "They took my goddamn gun," he moaned.

"You have to at least tell Gordon," Rachel urged.

"Gordon?!" Dent almost laughed in frustration at this. "Gordon's the best of all of them! If I go to Gordon with this, he'll…" He let out a noise of irritation and sat down heavily on the ruined bed. "I can't go to Gordon with this," he said with a sense of finality.

Rachel unfolded her arms, instead propping her hands on her hips, aggravated. "What is it, Harvey?" she asked. "Is it an unregistered weapon? Are you in possession of an unregistered weapon, is that it?"

"No!" Dent exclaimed. "It's just…" He let out a breath, looking away, thinking of how best to tell Rachel. "It's just… they'll ask where I got the gun. You know, so they can confirm the sale."

"And where did you get the gun, Harvey?" Rachel asked.

Dent buried his face in his hands, gritting his teeth. "Look, Rachel," he said, letting out a pent-up breath of aggravation, "I got it from an underground dealer. All right? An under-the-table guy."

"An unlicensed seller?" Rachel's eyebrows went up. "A black-market arms dealer?"

"Something like that, yeah," Dent agreed shortly.

"Harvey," Rachel moaned, putting a hand to her forehead.

"I know, it was really fucking stupid of me," Dent said, "but I wasn't the DA then, and plus, I didn't know he wasn't licensed at the time, okay? I thought he was legit. And then we got to talking, after I bought the gun…"

"What was his name, Harvey?" Rachel asked, cutting over him. "Do you at least remember that?"

Dent hesitated, considering telling Rachel flat-out, but then he remembered something. Instantly his hand flew to his breast pocket, and he looked inside it. Finding nothing, he stood, reaching for his pants-pockets, but, turning them inside-out, he found nothing there as well. Frantic, he started to search his jacket pockets, inside and out, and finally, finding nothing, he looked up at Rachel in despair. Rachel looked confused and a little scared.

"What's the matter, Harvey?" she asked.

"My coin!" Dent exclaimed, re-checking his breast pocket. "My father's lucky coin, I… I can't find it…!"

"Are you sure it's gone?" Rachel asked, starting to get frantic as well. She knew how important that coin was to Dent. "Maybe you set it down somewhere. Maybe you left it at work."

"I didn't leave it at work!" Dent started to retrace his steps to the door of the bedroom, then moved back towards the bed, putting his hands to his head. "Goddamn it!" he shouted. He tore off his jacket and held it upside-down, shaking it violently, as it the coin were stuck somewhere. Then, dropping his jacket to the floor, he collapsed into a seated position on the bed.

"I'll never replace that coin," Dent moaned, putting his head in his hands. "It was my father's lucky coin…"

Rachel bit her lip, staring at him. Then she moved to the bed and sat down beside him, putting a reassuring hand on his back. He looked up at her, sniffling slightly, and she smiled reassuringly at him. "Don't worry, Harvey," she told him. "Soon, all of this will be figured out. You just have to explain the situation to Gordon. He'll understand."

She looked at the jacket on the floor, then back at Dent, and a mischievous smile lit up her features. "And besides," she said, "you don't need your father's coin to be lucky."

Instantly Dent looked up at her. It took him a moment, but then, returning to his old mindset, he grinned.

. . .

Cobblepot glanced over his shoulder, waiting for White to leave. He let out a breath as he watched the man exit the Lounge, letting out a thin stream of smoke from between his lips. He frowned slightly, wondering vaguely what words had been exchanged between White and Napier, before turning back to Maggie. "He's here," he said in an undertone.

Maggie glanced over Cobblepot's shoulder to get a look at Napier, then retreated back into the small crowd they had been conversing with. "Do you think anyone's going to report him?" she asked in a low voice.

"Probably not," Cobblepot replied. He paused a moment, taking another drag on his cigarette, then let out a quick, agitated huff of smoke. "The longer he stays here, the more trouble it will be for us when the police send out an investigation against us. You did tell him that the Joker had been here before."

"I panicked!" Maggie exclaimed. She took a sharp intake of breath, biting her lip, glancing over to make sure her outburst had not been noticed. Then she turned back to Cobblepot. "Should we try to get him to leave? That way we don't have to lie when they ask us if he came here to do business."

Cobblepot raised his eyebrows. "To tell you the truth, he's not too bad to have around," he said, wetting his lips. "He did get rid of White." He considered bringing the cigarette back to his lips, paused, then let his hand go back to his side. "I'm going to talk to him," he said.

Maggie looked surprised for a moment. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" she asked in a nervous whisper. "I mean… he could be dangerous. He _is_ dangerous. How do you know he isn't here to hurt us?"

Cobblepot paused a moment, considering her question, then shook his head. "I don't think so," he said. "If he were here to hurt us, he would have done it by now." He raised his eyebrows, giving her a reassuring half-grin, and took a drag of his cigarette. "And besides," he added, "anyone who hates Warren White can't be bad." His grin widened, and he let out a long stream of blue smoke. Then he turned away from Maggie and started towards Napier.

Napier rapped his knuckles impatiently on the bar top, staring at the row of bottles behind the counter, and then turned away with a heavy sigh. "Fuck," he swore under his breath, drumming his fingers on the bar top. He scratched behind one ear, then turned back to Julio. "How long has it been?" he asked.

"Excuse me?" Julio asked.

Napier swallowed. "How long has it been?" he asked again. "You know…" He shrugged, scratching his crotch slightly. "Since…"

"Oh, hell no," Julio said, shaking his head. "We came here to find your fuck-buddy and your kid, man. That's it."

Napier cleared his throat, wetting his lips, and leaned back against the bar. "Right," he said under his breath. He paused another moment, then turned back to Julio. "Fuck it, give me some coke. I'm gonna do a couple lines in the bathroom."

Julio turned and looked at Napier, frowning. "You know what you're doing, right?" he said. "You got an addictive personality, so it's hard for you to quit this kind of shit. I know it's hard, but sometimes you just gotta say no to t-"

"Listen, I don't care, I just need a good buzz right now," Napier said, perhaps a bit too sharply.

Julio stared at him for a long moment, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small packet of coke. Napier reached out a hand, and Julio dropped it into his palm. Napier closed his hand over the small packet and started to get up from the barstool when suddenly he found himself face-to-face with Cobblepot. The two stared at each other for a moment. Then Cobblepot indicated the barstool again.

"Sit," he said. He put his hand in his pocket, indicating the barstool again. "You can do your lines later. I'll even let you borrow a mirror, if that's what you want. Just put it in your pocket for now and listen."

Napier stared at him, then slowly sat back down, stuffing the packet of cocaine into his pocket. "I'm looking for Jeanette," he said, before Cobblepot had a chance to say anything.

"I assumed as much," Cobblepot said, nodding. "You don't usually just come in here for the conversation."

"Sometimes I come for the drinks," Napier replied.

Cobblepot cleared his throat. "I noticed," he answered. He took a breath, then took a drag of his cigarette. He took a moment, blew it out, then said, "Harvey Dent came in here earlier today." He glanced over at Julio, a little hesitant, then looked back at Napier. "He said Jeanette came to the police station today, with your daughter. I don't know why," he added, holding up a hand before Napier could say anything, "but she was taken into custody, as was your daughter."

"What?!" Napier demanded. "I'll fucking tear down the police department, I swear to God-"

"I'm sure you would," Cobblepot said calmly, holding up a hand again. "But they aren't there anymore. The police made a search here, looking for you… among other things," he added. He raised his eyebrows. "But it was a distraction. A false call. While they were here, the station was ransacked… destroyed. Everyone in the holding cells was taken, including Jeanette." He paused. "Your daughter was taken, too."

"Who took her?" Napier demanded. "I'll rip their fucking head off!"

"Have you considered anger management?" Cobblepot asked. He brushed off the front of his jacket, then took a breath. "Nobody knows for sure," he said, "but we suspect it was Crane."

Napier pushed off from the barstool and started for the door, shoving two people out of the way as he made his way towards the exit. Julio looked at Cobblepot, then got up from the barstool and started towards the door as well, calling back as he went, "Thanks for the tip-off, _ese!_"

"Please, don't mention it," Cobblepot called back. He took a drag of his cigarette as Maggie came over and stood beside him, staring towards the doorway. Cobblepot let the smoke seep out from between his lips, then turned and looked at Maggie.

"That went well," he said.


	63. Chapter SixtyTwo

"FUCK YOU." Maria snapped her phone shut, shaking. She knew that Gordon wouldn't have heard her, but it made her feel better all the same to finally have said something. Even if she couldn't rightly blame the man for all that was happening, she felt fully justified in taking out some of her anger on him.

She knew when a case was hopeless. This was beyond even that. As she turned into traffic, Maria felt a strong urge to just up and move to a different county or state. _Country_, even. She'd do whatever it took to just get as far away from this hellhole as possible. Then that irritating little sense of morality kicked in, and she dug her nails into the steering wheel in irritation. She might still be able to help.

She could try to put all of this together and maybe make some sense of it, or catch something that one of the investigators had missed. It was a long shot, obviously - there was little or no chance that a stupid _author_ like herself would be able to outdo the police in what they did best - but at the moment it was the only thing that was keeping her from swerving into oncoming traffic. She took a deep, ragged breath, redid her ponytail at a red light, and settled back into the rut of determination into which she felt like she'd been permanently stuck.

. . .

The first place Napier could think for Crane to go would be the old warehouse where they had met in the first place. He had returned to the place after the disastrous party at Wayne Tower, and it was where he had stayed before he had been taken in by Jeanette. If he remembered correctly - which he was not always known for doing - he had left all his important supplies there. He put a hand in his pocket, fidgeting with the small packet of cocaine, and let out a heavy sigh. "Fucking Crane," he hissed.

"I take it you got something against this guy?" Julio asked, looking up at him, his own hands stuffed in his pockets as he tried to keep up. It took two of Julio's steps to make up one of Napier's strides, and Napier was apparently in no mood for slowing down to accommodate the small Mexican.

Napier laughed bitterly. "To say that I have something against him would be putting it lightly," he said, his voice low and hateful. He turned a corner, not bothering to let Julio catch up. "I've had a score to settle with Crane for a long time," he explained to Julio. "We were… partners, of a sort. Then we split up, 'cause he felt it was okay to treat me like less than human." He took a breath, considering how much to tell to Julio, then decided that it was all right to trust the man. After all, he was a drug dealer, and there was no way he was double-dealing with the police. Napier could just tell.

"That's when he started going after me… like, targeting me," Napier went on. "I don't know why… but the attack isn't against me as a criminal anymore. It's against me as a person." He scratched behind his ear again, the twitch returning. Then he put the hand in his pocket, trying to keep himself from doing it again. "Taking my wife and kid is the last straw," he said, shaking his head. "And Jeanette, too…" He stopped, bowing his head. He had to keep his thoughts in order. He could not let this raw, angry emotion take over. He took a deep breath as Julio came to stand beside him.

Julio paused, not really sure what to say, then commented, "He sounds like an asshole, man."

Napier raised his eyebrows, looking over at Julio. "Yeah," he agreed after a pause. "You could say that."

The two stared at each other for another long moment, then Napier turned his head and looked towards a grey, run-down building. Water dripped from the entrance, making an ominous, repetitive _drip, drip, drip_ noise. Napier took a deep breath, then turned back towards the warehouse. Julio hesitated, then followed close behind. Napier paused in the doorway of the warehouse, looking around, then stepped inside. The first thing he saw was Flicker's body in the middle of the floor. He slowly started towards the girl, pausing when he stood over her, looking down at her. There was no mistaking the blood pooling from her lips that stained the floor around her and clung to her hair. The girl was dead.

Napier took a breath. He had never met the girl, to his knowledge, though there was something familiar about her face. Then it hit him. He had met the girl, but only once - when he had tried to rape her. She had begged for him to stop, for him to leave her alone. She was the only one who had ever tried to appeal to him as a human being, rather than as a murdering sociopath. And now she was dead. For some reason, it hurt Napier to see her that way, with no dignity, no family to mourn her, nothing. He paused a moment, considering picking her up and carrying her away from this place, when something else caught his attention.

"Hey, _ese!_" Julio called, and instantly Napier turned. Julio was pointing towards another form in a corner. Napier turned away from the corpse and headed towards what Julio was indicating. He could do nothing to help the dead girl. Napier glanced at Julio, hesitating, then moved into the darkness towards what Julio had indicated. There was certainly something there, though Napier could not make out what it was, besides the fact that it was certainly human. Moving closer, he saw that it was a woman, slender, tall, and muscular, her dark hair tied back into a ponytail.

"Jeanette!" Napier exclaimed, falling to his knees beside her. He picked up her limp form, holding her close to his chest, the blood from her wound staining his shirt. She was still warm, and when he put two fingers to her throat, he found a faint pulse. Napier turned to Julio. "She's still alive!" he exclaimed, his voice cracking somewhat. He picked her up in his arms, holding her against his chest, her head resting on his shoulder, and stood. Julio looked surprised, and a little scared. "She's still alive," Napier panted. "We have to get her help… get her to someplace where she can get medical attention."

"Not my place," Julio instantly said.

"Well… fuck!" Napier exclaimed, his expression one of panicked desperation. He turned somewhat, as if looking around for something, anything, to help him. "We gotta… we have to…" He took a deep breath, then looked back at Julio. "Her place," he exclaimed. "We'll just take her back to her place, and… and…"

"And _what,_ man?" Julio asked. "Are you a registered doctor?"

"She has to _live,_ Julio!" Napier exclaimed. "She has to… we can't… I can't… I can't just let her die!"

"What, because you fucked her?" Julio asked.

"No," Napier answered, "because…" He paused, looking down at Jeanette in his arms, and wet his lips as he stared at her. "Because… she's my _friend,_" he answered, quieter. He looked up at Julio, his dark eyes sad and somewhat misty. "She's my _only_ friend," he said.

Julio stared at him, then stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Well, man, what am _I,_ then?" he asked.

Napier hesitated, his eyes lingering on Julio, lost for words. He had not been expecting that. He wet his lips again, swallowed awkwardly, and then answered, "You're my drug dealer."

Julio sniffed, then shrugged. "Okay, man," he said, his voice low. He looked away for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Well, let's get her out of here," he said, turning away from Napier.

Napier nodded, then hefted Jeanette up into his arms again and started for the exit, following Julio. He paused, glanced back at the dead girl, sighed, then turned away and walked out of the warehouse.

. . .

The Lounge had been left to Maggie to oversee, and, instead of taking a nap, Cobblepot had decided to go for a walk. It was getting dark outside, and the cool air was refreshing after being in the stuffy, smoky Iceberg Lounge for hours on end. Cobblepot flicked his cigarette from between his fingers, paying no mind to where it landed, as he strolled down the street, looking a somewhat odd spectacle in his crisp tuxedo, a stark comparison to the other, less formally dressed people of Gotham who still dared to be walking the streets at this time in the evening. A few people gave him odd looks as he passed, but he disregarded them.

It was strange, Cobblepot thought, that less than two weeks ago, everything had seemed so… _quiet_. At least, it _seemed_ quiet, compared to everything that was going on now, what with the Joker, Crane, and Jeanette, and everything that had transpired between all of them, as well as all the other colourful characters he had found himself suddenly making the acquaintance of. Then there was Warren White, who seemed to be getting steadily more risky to be around every day. If he was not doing something blatantly illegal, he was doing something to make Cobblepot doubt whether he should even be around the man. White was a hot-headed, double-dealing son-of-a-bitch, and Cobblepot knew it, but he always tried to look for the good in everyone.

He was having a hard time finding it in Warren White.

Cobblepot checked his watch, frowning slightly, then reached into his pocket, fished out a tagged key, and turned, starting up the steps of a posh hotel. The bellhop inclined his head at Cobblepot as he passed, and Cobblepot pushed through the gilded double-doors into the decadent front-room of the hotel. It was a grand place, to be sure, and Cobblepot smiled to himself. He had made sure that he put Grace and her guest in the best possible hotel in Gotham. If Grace were to come all the way down to visit him, he wanted to make sure her stay was comfortable.

Cobblepot crossed to the front desk and tapped the little bell, requesting assistance. Instantly a young woman appeared behind the desk. Cobblepot held up the tagged key. "I'm here to see Grace Balin and Arnold Wesker," he announced. "Are they in?"

The receptionist glanced down at her book, then looked back up at Cobblepot with an affirmative nod and a smile. Cobblepot returned the smile and nod, and turned away from her. He pushed the button for the elevator and was about to step inside when the receptionist called after him, "Someone else went up to visit them a little earlier. A friend of yours, perhaps?"

Cobblepot turned and looked at her. "Someone else?" he asked. The receptionist nodded. Cobblepot paused, then asked, "Did they give a name?"

"No," the receptionist answered, shaking her head. "It was a tall man, in a long black coat. I didn't see his face, but he asked about the two of them, asked for them by name. He said he was a friend."

"Did he?" Cobblepot asked. He paused again, thinking, and then asked, "And you sent him up?"

The receptionist looked taken aback. "Well… yes," she answered.

Cobblepot stared at her for a long moment, and then nodded. "Thank you," he said, and turned away from her, pressing the elevator button again. Now he was nervous. He had not told anyone else where Arnold and Maggie were staying, no one except the people he trusted most… The elevator doors opened with a ding, and Cobblepot stepped inside, a growing sense of dread filling him. He turned, pressing the button of the floor they were staying on, and took a deep breath as the elevator doors closed.

"You're overreacting," he assured himself. "It's nothing. They're fine. Perhaps… perhaps it was someone from the marine lab, looking for Grace." It made no sense whatsoever, but it was the only hope he had.

The elevator doors opened with another light ding as he reached his destination. Cobblepot stepped off of the elevator, fidgeting with his tagged key, and counted down the doors until he came to the one Grace and Arnold had been staying in. He pulled out his key and went to put it in the lock when he realized that the door was already open, the locking mechanism sealed off with a strip of duct tape. Cobblepot hesitated, then slowly pushed the door open and looked inside.

"Gracie?" he called. "Arnold?"

He took a few steps inside, and instantly recoiled in horror.

The first thing he saw was the blood.

There was blood everywhere, all over the furniture, on the beds, pooling sickeningly on the floor. On one of the beds, Grace lay face-down in a pool of blood. Cobblepot instantly hurried over to her. "Gracie," he exclaimed, breathless, and turned her over. Her eyes were closed, and there was a single bullet-hole in her forehead, where she had been shot, execution-style. Cobblepot staggered back a few steps, looking around for Arnold, hoping he would find the man and get some kind of explanation from him.

"Arnold!" he called frantically, moving from one end of the room to the other. Finally he moved back to the entrance and turned, seeing the bathroom door of the room closed. He put a hand to the door, paused, and then pushed it open. Lying on the tile floor, a pool of blood surrounding his balding head, was Wesker. His eyes were wide open and glassy, and Cobblepot could see that he, too, had been shot execution-style, with just one bullet to the head.

Cobblepot stumbled back against the wall of the hotel room, trying hard not to retch. It was overwhelming, seeing so much blood, and so sudden. Just an hour ago, he had been having a light-hearted banter with Grace over his favourite sea creature. Now she was dead, and so was her friend. Cobblepot took a few dizzy steps back into the room, and almost instantly tripped over something lying on the ground. He turned and looked to see what it was, and was shocked to see that it was a handgun. Stunned, Cobblepot almost picked it up, but then realized that he probably left enough fingerprints on the scene as it was, and instead knelt down to take a look at it.

He remembered every weapon he had ever sold, and there was no mistaking this one. It was the handgun he had sold to Harvey Dent.

Lying next to it on the floor was Harvey Dent's lucky coin.

. . .

Napier set Jeanette down gently on the couch in the front-room of her apartment and sat down on the coffee-table, staring at her, biting his lip. He had carried her carefully all the way from the warehouse to the apartment, making sure she stayed secure and steady in his arms, checking every few seconds to make sure she still had a pulse. He absently rubbed his own healing wound, which Jeanette had patched up for him so efficiently, and wet his lips, trying to think back to how she did it. He got up from the coffee-table and started towards the bathroom. There had to be a towel in there that he could use.

Julio came into the front-room and stared down at Jeanette, raising one eyebrow slightly. "What are you gonna do, _ese?_" he asked, looking up towards where Napier was. "You don't know shit about how to treat a bullet-wound, man."

"No," Napier answered, moving back into the room with a warm, damp towel and setting it on the coffee-table as he knelt beside Jeanette. He gingerly unbuttoned her top, making sure to be as careful as possible, and finally managed to pull it off of her. Then, grimacing as he inspected the lesion, he picked up the towel and started to lightly clean the wound. "I was hoping _you_ would know something about that, actually."

"Me?" Julio exclaimed, indicating himself in surprise. "What, do I look like a fuckin' doctor to you, man?"

"No," Napier replied again, cleaning off the last of the blood from around the wound. He looked up at Julio. "You look like an illegal alien. And I know you're a drug dealer. So I thought you might know something about how to treat a bullet wound, since I assumed –"

"You assumed I get shot at a lot, is that it?" Julio asked, cutting over him.

Napier shook his head, patient. "I assumed you might have picked up a few pointers, from your life on the streets." He turned back to Jeanette, frowning worriedly. "But I guess not," he said with a slight sigh. He cautiously inspected the wound with the tips of his fingers, then got up again, taking the blood-soaked towel with him. "I'm going to see if I can find some tweezers," he told Julio. "You look and see if you can't find a needle and thread."

"What the fuck, man? You think this is, like, Operation or something?" Julio asked, incredulous. "You need, like, cleansing shit, and… a competent doctor."

"She should have some liquor in her cabinet," Napier called from the bathroom. He wrung out the bloody towel in the bathroom sink, then flipped it onto his shoulder, opening the mirror-cabinet and looking through all the little bags and cups that Jeanette had in there. Finally, frustrated and somewhat frantic, he began pulling them out and tossing them aside if they did not have tweezers inside them. Finally, he found a pair of wicked-looking silver tweezers, which he pulled out and started back towards the front-room. Julio stood over Jeanette, holding an almost-empty bottle of liquor. He lifted it and indicated Napier with it.

"You stay here often?" he asked.

"Fuck off. Give me that," Napier said, taking the bottle liquor from Julio and opening it. He knelt over Jeanette, pouring a small amount from the bottle onto the wound, and then, gritting his teeth, he reached into the wound with the tweezers. The smell of the liquor and her blood was making him sick, but he just reached deeper into the wound until finally, he felt the ends of the tweezers take hold of something solid. With a sickening noise, Napier pulled the bullet from Jeanette's wound and held it up for Julio to see.

"You see?" he said, smiling slightly. "I _can_ play doctor."

"That's just fucked up, man," Julio commented, monotone.

Napier placed the bullet and the tweezers on the coffee-table, then pulled the towel off of his shoulder and started tending to the wound again. He poured a bit more of the liquor on the wound, dabbing it up with the towel, then looked up at Julio. "Did you find the needle and thread?" he asked. Julio nodded and produced a spare spool of black thread, out of which was sticking a needle. Napier took both from Julio, then held out his hand again. "I need your lighter, too," he said.

Julio dug into his pocket and produced his lighter, handing it over to Napier. Napier took the lighter and, flicking it into life, held the tip of the needle over it, letting the lighter burn the needle an unsightly brown colour. Then, blowing on the needle to cool it, Napier handed the lighter back to Julio and threaded the needle. "Black always was her favourite colour," he said with a hint of morbid humour, and, trying to keep his hands from shaking, Napier set to sewing up Jeanette's wound. The stitches were not particularly pretty, but they would hold. Napier's breathing was ragged and nervous as he finished off the stitch and tied off the thread, biting off the end of it, then taking the bottle of liquor and splashing the wound with it once more. Then, with a relieved sigh, he leaned back against the coffee-table.

"Done," he said.

Julio watched Napier for a long moment, then got to his feet with a sigh. "Listen," he said, "I gotta get home, _ese._" He looked at Jeanette again, raising his eyebrows. "Rosa's probably, y'know, wondering where I am."

Napier looked up at Julio in surprise. "You're not going to stay?" he asked.

Julio shrugged. "Hey, man, I helped," he said. "There's nothing else for me to do, so…" He indicated over his shoulder. "I'm gonna head out." He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "If you need anymore drugs or whatever, I'll be at White's bar. You know… where I was the first time."

Napier frowned. "But… what if I need your help again?" he asked, sounding worried.

Julio raised his eyebrows. "Hey, _ese,_" he said, "you're the one who said I was just your drug dealer. So that's what I'm doing… being your drug dealer." He turned and headed for the door.

"Wait, Julio," Napier said, "wait, I… I didn't mean it like that. It's just…"

"It's cool, man," Julio said, his voice still somewhat cold. "I understand. It's okay… I'm used to it." And with that, he closed the door behind him.

Napier stood staring after Julio for a long moment, then turned back to Jeanette. He folded his hands in his lap, staring at her for a long moment, and then got to his feet and, making sure to be as careful as possible, he picked her up in his arms and sat down on the couch, holding her close. He buried his face in her soft, dark hair, rocking her ever so slightly.

"Please don't die, Jeanette," he whispered. "Please…"

. . .

Jason Bard was not a night person. He was a morning person, and his showman's enthusiasm dwindled famously through the day the closer it got to leaving time, and the closer the amount of coffee in the coffee-maker got to empty. Bard sipped thoughtfully on his last cup of coffee of the day, which was cold by now, and stared at the computer screen in front of him. He had been given the job of chief investigator of the Gotham division of secret-service agents, and reports had been flooding into his office day and night since he was foolish enough to accept the position. He had quickly learned to shuffle off the jobs onto his lower-placed colleagues, and so often found himself playing Solitaire until it was time to go home.

Bard had never considered himself to be a playboy, but there was no denying that he was a good-looking man. He was tall and handsome, with well-groomed brown hair, amiable hazel eyes, and a quirky, lopsided smile that always seemed to make ladies swoon. Bard had been engaged once, but the woman had called off the engagement after his involvement in the law caused the two of them to be held at gunpoint. She had been wounded in the incident, and the two of them had decided that they would both be better off without the other. They had ended the relationship with the understanding that the two of them would remain friends, and that she would help him out in any way possible, should the opportunity arise for her to do so.

Upon moving to Gotham, Bard had been surprised to learn that the most competent officer in the police force was the young woman's uncle. Bard and Gordon had never been the best of friends, despite this, but Bard did not hold it against him. Gordon was probably bitter about the fact that Bard, who was at least ten years younger than Gordon, had managed to land himself a better, higher-up job than Gordon had. Or, he reasoned, picking up a photograph on his desk that had fallen onto its front and setting it up again, it could be that he resented Bard for breaking off his engagement with Gordon's niece. It did not make Bard look any better that he had started dating a nineteen-year-old blonde bombshell soon afterwards.

Bard checked his watch and sighed, taking another sip of his cold coffee. It was past time for him to leave the office, but he had to have one last check-in with his two underlings that he had set on the Joker case before he could go home. He set his coffee-cup down on his desk and closed out the window where he had been playing a losing game of Spider Solitaire, and unburied a brown folder from underneath all the stray papers on his desk, opening it and looking through it at all the grisly murders. He had never told Dinah about his job, for fear that it would scare her away, and, looking through the pictures of bloodied body after bloodied body, Bard could not blame her. He closed the folder, tossing it back onto his desk, and picked up his coffee cup again, taking another sip.

Bard swirled the coffee around in his mouth irritably, then swallowed and checked his watch again. "Come on, Kaitlyn," he grumbled. He set his coffee-cup down on the desk and picked up his work-phone, dialling in a number and leaning back in his chair as the phone rang. He smiled when he heard a female voice pick up. "Dinah, baby," he said, grinning, "it's so wonderful to hear your voice. I was just calling to tell you that I'm gonna be a little late coming home from work, okay? I have to wait for a couple of knuckleheads to report back to me before I can get out of here." He picked up his cup of coffee and took a sip. "You're sure it's okay?" he asked. He smiled. "Thanks, babe, you're the best," he said, and hung up.

Dinah never had a problem with him coming home late. Most other guys would worry, but not Jason Bard. Dinah was young and flighty, and she probably had a boyfriend on the side, but Bard could care less. Just as long as she was in bed next to him when he went to sleep and there beside him when he woke up, and as long as she stayed at his arm during cocktail parties, he could care less what she did in her free time. She had mentioned wanting to go to college once, but then had decided against it. Bard would never admit it, but he was glad she had.

Bard finished off the last of his cold cup of coffee and set it down on his desk, checking his watch again, now totally frustrated. "This goddamn late and those two still aren't back here," he said. He glanced over at the photograph of Dinah sitting on his desk, then pulled up another game of Solitaire and started playing distractedly.

"I'm going to kill those two," he grumbled.

. . .

Rachel traced the cleft in Dent's chest with one slender finger, her head rested on his shoulder, and then sighed, looking up at him. "You really should tell the police," she said.

Dent stared up at the ceiling and grunted. "Tell the police that my illegally purchased gun was stolen?" he asked. "_There's_ a winner of an idea."

Rachel turned and propped herself up on her elbows, looking over at Dent. "What's worse, Harvey?" she asked. "Telling the police you purchased a gun illegally, or getting in even bigger trouble when someone uses your gun to do something horrible, and then frames you for it?"

Dent paused, then turned his head and looked at her, grinning. "Now, who would want to do something like that?" he asked. He chuckled, then shook his head, looking back at the ceiling. "Nah," he said, "they probably just sold it to a pawn shop or something." He turned back to her, smiling. "Besides," he added, "who would be stupid enough to even want to _try _to frame me for some crime? Gordon knows me… he knows I would never do anything like –"

Suddenly, the door of the bedroom was kicked open, and a squadron of policemen flooded into the room, a few of them with their guns trained on Dent. Rachel screamed and pulled the sheets up to cover herself, mortified. From amidst the mass of blue uniforms, Gordon and two other men stepped forward. Gordon's expression was dark, his frown deadly serious.

"Get some pants on, Harvey," Gordon instructed him.

Dent grabbed his boxers from off the floor and shoddily slipped them on, followed by his pants. Instantly his wrists were grabbed by an officer and wrestled behind his back, where they were cuffed tightly. Dent struggled and exclaimed, turning his reddened face towards Gordon. "What the hell is going on, Gordon?!" Dent demanded, struggling against his handcuffs.

"You have the right to remain silent," Gordon told him, seemingly ignoring his questions. "Everything you say or do can and will be used against you in a court of law."

"Stop it with the goddamn cop-talk, Gordon!" Dent exclaimed. "Just tell me, what did I do?!"

"You're under arrest for the murder of Arnold Wesker and Grace Balin," Gordon reported, a cold edge to his voice. "You will be allowed a lawyer and to present your case in a court of law, should you wish to challenge the accusation."

"Damn right, I wish to challenge your accusation," Dent snarled, thrashing against the officer who held him handcuffed. "I didn't murder anyone, Gordon, and you know it! I was here the whole time!" He turned to Rachel. "Tell him, Rachel! Tell him I was here the whole time!"

"I don't doubt you were, Harvey," Gordon said, raising a hand, "but the evidence points to you. Your coin was at the scene of the crime, and so was a handgun that was registered in your name –"

"It was stolen!" Dent exclaimed. "My house was broken into, and the gun was stolen!"

"When did this happen?" Gordon asked, his brow furrowing.

"A couple of hours ago… I don't know!" Dent was getting frantic. "It must have happened while I was at the funeral! All I know is, I came back home, the place was ransacked, and my gun was missing!"

"Why didn't you report it missing?" Gordon insisted. "If you wanted your story to be credible, you should have reported the weapon missing."

"I…" Dent faltered, unsure of what to say. "I…" He licked his lips, trying to think of how to explain the situation to Gordon.

"He got distracted," Rachel exclaimed, covering herself with the bedsheets. She blushed slightly. "It was my fault, Jim. Harvey was so upset when he came home and saw the house had been broken into, he was going to report the robbery, but I couldn't stand to see him so upset, so…" She blushed even harder. "He was going to report it," she insisted again.

Dent turned back to Gordon. "I didn't kill anybody," he said. "You have to believe me, Gordon."

"I would like to, Harvey," Gordon said, "but your story just doesn't add up. Even with Miss Dawes' added testimony, it just doesn't make any sense that you wouldn't contact the police as soon as you realized that your house had been broken –"

"I didn't murder anyone!" Dent exploded, snarling at Gordon.

"Shouting won't do you any good, Harvey," Gordon said, holding up a hand.

"Who reported the murders, huh?!" Dent insisted. "Who reported them? Who was it?!"

"I don't have the authority to tell you who reported the murders, Harvey," Gordon said, trying to remain calm.

"Like hell you don't, Gordon!" Dent exclaimed. "I'm the goddamn DA, and I want to know who reported the murders! Tell me who it was!"

"Whoever it is specifically asked that I don't tell you!" Gordon shot back, starting to lose his patience with Dent. "They're under witness protection, Harvey, because they're afraid if I tell you, you'll go after them, and the _rest_ of the people they care about!"

"The rest…?" Dent's eyes grew wide. "The people who were murdered were friends of the person who reported the murders?" he asked.

Gordon took a breath. He had said too much. "Yes," he answered, figuring it could not do any more harm than he had already done.

Dent looked away for a moment, then looked back at Gordon. "I want to see my lawyer," he said, his voice calmer now. "And I'd like to request an audience with the man who reported the murders."

"I never said it was a man," Gordon quickly interjected, but Dent ignored him.

"And I want my phone call," Dent said. He glanced over his shoulder at Rachel, then looked back at Gordon. "And I'd like Miss Dawes to represent me, should this end up in a court of law."

"We'll take all that into consideration," Gordon said, nodding. "Will you come quietly?"

Dent took a breath, then nodded. The policeman holding his arms behind his back started leading him towards the door, and he pulled away from the man. "I can walk myself, _thanks,_" he said. He glanced over his shoulder again, towards Rachel. "Don't worry," he told her. "Everything is going to be okay." And with that, he disappeared amongst the crowd of policemen, who began filing out of the room. When the last policeman left the room, he shut the door behind him, leaving Rachel very alone in the bedroom.

"I hope so," Rachel whispered.

. . .

Kaitlyn's phone went off. She pulled it out of her pocket, taking a suspicious glance around the street. She hated walking near the Narrows; even with Robert, and even armed, she felt like they were going to get jumped any second. It's not like it wasn't a reasonable fear, either. So she exercised extra caution, no matter how many times Rob called her paranoid. She flipped her phone open and put it to her ear, nodding a few times before she scowled and hung up. "You've got to be kidding me," she moaned.

Rob watched her put the phone back in her pocket with an eye roll. "Something up?" he asked, curious. He wouldn't think Kaitlyn would be in a foul mood even this late. After all, they were heading back to his place to crash for the night. She sighed, checking the street signs near them.

"Just got a call from the station. Apparently, there's some domestic violence or something going down not too far from here. I guess there was some shouting heard in one of the apartments near here, and the neighbors got worried." She shook her head in disgust. "Why Gordon thinks he can call me any time he needs a favor is beyond..."

"Gordon called you himself?" Robert interrupted, impressed. He held the police chief in high regard; the man was one of the few honest cops left in Gotham. Kaitlyn shook her head.

"Well, no, just one of the usual rent-a-cop types down at the station," she said, shrugging. "You'll just have to go report to Bard yourself." A crooked smile crossed her face. "Try not to let him drive you nuts."

Robert frowned, still thinking about the call. Why would the GCPD try to use them as regular officers? They were special forces; they didn't work on little incidents like this. Still, he wasn't about to argue with authority, however irregular it seemed, and it seemed that Kaitlyn had already made up her mind about it; she'd turned and begun to walk the other way. "See you in a bit?" he called after her. "Give me a call if anything bad comes up. You know how these things get."

"Yeah," Kaitlyn replied, voice growing faint as she turned down a side street and cut towards a block full of apartments. "Yeah, I know."


	64. Chapter SixtyThree

Jeanette woke for the first time in what felt like _years_, and she didn't know where she was. The last thing she could remember was a gunshot going off, and that had been in the warehouse Crane had taken her and the others to...

Oh, right. The gunshot. The one that had hit her. Afraid of what she might find, she left her eyes shut and focused for the first time on the pain. It burned, it stung, it...she didn't know _how_ to describe it. Not that it mattered, anyways. All she cared about the pain was that it meant that she was still alive.

She experimented with a few words, finally settling on a muffled, "Ffffffuck..." It came out better than expected, so she opened her eyes and only then realized that someone was there with her. She hazarded a few guesses and figured that there was only one person she knew who wouldn't be trying to kill her, much less being so gentle and careful with her. And the sight of that Chelsea grin confirmed her guess. "Jack...?"

Her voice cracked, so she tried again. "Where the hell...oh, shit," she said haltingly. She'd tried to straighten up and realized that her left shoulder was burning. She looked down, saw the makeshift stitches, and closed her eyes again. "Where the hell am I?" she continued. "What happened? How'd you...where'd you come from? How..." _Take it easy, for god's sake._ Trying to remember exactly what had happened back at that warehouse and figure out how she'd gotten back to her apartment at the same time wasn't helping her focus. And she was having enough trouble keeping it together at all at the moment.

Napier's head had lolled back to the side, and he had fallen sound asleep, holding Jeanette in his arms. At the feeling of her stirring in his grasp and the sound of her voice, however, he instantly woke up. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then opened them, looking down at her, frowning in concern. "Mm?" he grunted, trying to figure out all of what she was asking him. He cleared his throat, squeezing his eyes shut again, waking himself up, and then answered groggily, "Your apartment." Since she was awake and seemed to be doing all right, he took one of the hands that he had been holding her with and rubbed his eye with it. "Good to see you're awake, now…"

Suddenly, something registered. Napier's eyes shot open, and he looked down at Jeanette. "You… you're alive!" he exclaimed. He let out a relieved laugh and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close to his body, making sure to be wary of her stitches, trying his hardest not to hurt her any more than she was already hurt. "Oh god, Jeanette," he said, pressing his nose to her ear as he held her close, not wanting to let go. It was a miracle that his idiotic doctoring had done any good for Jeanette, and he was in shock. He kissed her forehead, then held her close again. "Oh, god," he said again, trying to keep his voice from cracking, "I thought you were dead… I thought you'd died… Oh, god…"

He finally let go of her, if only to regain his head and give her a little space to breath. He wet his lips, trying to find the words to say, and then laughed again, a somewhat frantic, thankful laugh with no trace of humour in it. "Um, you were…" He closed his eyes, trying to think back. "Warehouse… some warehouse," he said. "A bullet-wound. Somebody shot you. – Look!" He reached across her and picked up the bullet, which he had extracted from her wound, showing it to her. He wet his lips again and swallowed, wound up. "This was the bullet. I got it out…" He set the bullet back down on the coffee-table and let out a deep sigh of relief, burying his face in her dark hair.

"Oh my god, Jeanette…" he said in a low voice. He kissed her again, on top of her head, and held her close to himself. He did not care if she wanted free; he was not done getting over the shock yet. Besides, she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. If she wanted free from his suffocating embrace, she could get herself out of it. Finally, he let go of her, thinking back to the questions she had asked, and swallowed, considering what to say.

"Cobblepot… Cobblepot told me where you'd gone," he said. He paused, wetting his lips. "He said you'd gone to the police station with Jeannie Rose, and that Crane had sabotaged the place and taken all the people in the holding cells with him." He looked away, trying to remember the exact details. It was hard to think back to them when so much adrenaline was going through his veins. "I went to the first place I suspected he'd be, and… we found you there." He paused. "There was also another woman there," he added, "but she was dead."

Napier paused, looking away, and then looked back at Jeanette. "Thank god you're alive," he said, sounding much more somber than before. His brow furrowed. "You're going to have to stay here until your wound heals. I'm going to stay tonight, but tomorrow…" He paused again. "Tomorrow I'm going after Jeannie Rose and Kitty." His dark eyes locked with hers. "Crane has taken everything from me," he said. "He took my wife, my daughter, my credibility… he tried to take you from me." He shook his head. "I'm going to find him," he told Jeanette. "And when I do, I'm going to make him wish he were dead."

He took a deep breath. "And then I'm going to kill him," he said.

"Wait..." Jeanette managed, her good mood disappearing as quickly as her lopsided grin. She pulled away. "No...what?"

He couldn't be _serious_. Rushing in to get Crane without some semblance of a plan was like...She was too tired for similes. It was stupid. Plain, plumb stupid. She ran a hand down her face, then let it flop into her lap. She was too tired for this. And there was the little matter of the dull pain in her shoulder; she'd taken a goddamn _bullet_ a few hours ago, for Christ's sake, she wasn't going to be doing any heavy debating for a while. She'd talk to him about it...later. His plans for himself _and_ her; she was not going to sit around and let him take Crane down himself.

She looked around again. "You know, my lease on this place is over tomorrow," she commented with a faint grin, more for the sake of breaking the silence than anything. "Weird coincidence, huh?" Suddenly, she frowned. "Wait. Did you say you found me in the warehouse? So Crane and his buddies _abandoned_ me? Then what happened to Flicker and Kitty and..." Her head spun. She was over-exerting herself again. At this rate, she wouldn't be in any sort of shape to make Crane squirm like the twisted little cockroach he was. "Did they all leave?"

"Warehouse," Napier repeated. He wet his lips, thinking back. All the thoughts were still spinning in his head. He really needed a bump right now… "They all left," he said, nodding. "All except…" He paused, not sure of who the woman had been. "Short blonde hair…" he said, indicating with one hand. "Uh, really skinny, tank-top…" He looked at her, as if she knew who he was talking about. Then he took a breath. "She was dead," he told her.

He tried to steady his racing pulse, taking several deep breaths, then looked back at Jeanette. "Tomorrow?" he asked. He raised his eyebrows. "Don't stay long, do you?" He managed a humourless, wheezy chuckle, then cleared his throat, wetting his lips and swallowing. He put a hand to his head, letting out a deep breath. "Shit," he whispered. Then he looked back at her. "Crane has Kitty still," he said. "Crane has her, and Jeannie Rose, and…" He shook his head, out of ideas. Then he looked back at Jeanette again.

"Does he have anyone else with him?" he asked. "Like, um… who else was in the holding cells? It was you, and that… that blonde woman… was that it?" It was hard to believe that, even in an incompetent city like Gotham, there would be so few inmates at one time. Then again, he reasoned, there was really only one cop in the whole system that was not either corrupt or totally incompetent. He would have to pay Gordon a visit, one of these days, to thank him for his fine work. But that was not the issue at hand.

Napier looked at Jeanette again. "Listen, it's getting late," he said, perhaps a little too eagerly, "maybe we should talk more about this in the morning, huh? Let's get some sleep, and then we can, y'know…" He swallowed, shrugging. "We can both be a little more coherent in the morning. A little more with it." He raised his eyebrows, taking a sharp breath. "Or we could keep talking about it, now," he added. "But it's been a long day, and… I know you must be tired." He gingerly ran his thumb across her stitches in the least sensual way he could manage.

His dark eyes returned to hers, and he offered her a twitchy, crooked smile. "Sound good?" he asked.

"Typical," she spat bitterly, a sour frown at the thought of the poor girl's end. "Goodhart wouldn't have shot Kitty, Crane told him not to, and that bastard has him under his thumb..." She couldn't _really_ be sad about Flicker's death. After all, the girl had worked with Crane willfully, whether she felt the same allegiance now or not. Jeanette couldn't help but remember the night in the motel, when Flicker had asked Jeanette if she'd be able to leave with her if they ever got away.

She tried to turn her mind to the new problem, that of Kitty and Jeannie Rose (and that stranger who'd been in the cells with her; something about him seemed strangely familiar, but she couldn't put a finger on it), but found herself unable to. "Absolutely," she replied. Maybe the answer would come to her with a little rest; it usually did.

She pushed herself up from the couch, taking care not to stretch the stitches any more than necessary. They felt odd; she finally had something to show that she wasn't some primped-up model or heiress. She wasn't sure if that was a good thing quite yet. A look around showed her that the apartment hadn't been touched since she'd left. The only things that had changed were a few open kitchen cabinets. She grinned, thinking about how her injury must have been taken care of. "Since when are you a doctor?" she asked, pointing at the stitches as she headed towards the bedroom.

It, like the rest of the apartment, lay unchanged. She shivered; it just didn't feel right, coming back here, where everything was calm and quiet and normal (or, at least, what now passed for normal in her life), after all that had happened that day. She hugged herself, chills running up her spine. And to think, tomorrow she'd be racing about town, hunting for a man she'd been wanting to kill for weeks. Theoretically, at least. Assuming that she'd be able to race at all. She sat down on the bed, lightly fingering the stitches, taking care not to irritate the torn skin. It was almost a sort of twisted irony; the injury that Crane's little henchman had inflicted on her might make it impossible for her to get back at him.

Napier listened to her, only half-hearing what she was saying. Goodhart… the name seemed oddly familiar, but he could not quite place it. Not that he was in any state of mind to even try, at the moment. He would head to the bathroom, get a good fix, and then come back and puzzle it out. He took a deep breath as Jeanette got up out of his arms and started towards the bedroom. He watched her make her way inside, and, as soon as she was out of sight, he pushed himself off the couch and headed towards the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

"I'll be right there," Napier called, switching on the light in the bathroom and hoping Jeanette would not think his behaviour odd. "I just… gotta piss, real quick." He took a sharp breath, opening the drawers in the bathroom counter and sorting through them, trying to make as little noise as possible. He finally pulled out a slim, plastic case, which he opened to reveal a slender, expensive razor, probably one Jeanette used to shave her legs. Biting his lip, Napier considered the object, then decided that Jeanette had plenty of money to buy another shaver and snapped it in half. The slender little blades fell neatly into the palm of his hand, and he set them down on the counter, tossing the now-useless shaver into the rubbish-bin and turning back to the drawers.

Napier sifted through one drawer, then, finding nothing, turned to the other drawer, where he found a small, double-sided vanity mirror. He set it down on the counter, let out a deep breath, then fished in his pocket, pulling out the two packets that Julio had given him. He took the white one and opened it, tapping the powder carefully out onto the vanity mirror, then picked up one of the blades and started to separate the powder into lines. He stood staring at it for a long moment, a little shocked that he still remembered something as terrible as this, then bent over the mirror and, holding one half of his nose shut with an index finger, he inhaled a line of cocaine.

The effect was instantaneous. He pulled back from the mirror, letting out a deep, satisfied breath. He had not felt like this in years. His eyes fluttered closed, blissful, and an odd smile came to his face as he licked his lips. Then he bent over the mirror again, finishing the rest of the lines. When he was finished, he tossed the razors into the trash, picked up the vanity mirror, and licked its surface. Satisfied that he had gotten all of it, he ran the mirror under the tap, then put it back in the drawer and closed the drawer. He took a step towards the door of the bathroom, then stopped, looking back at the counter, where his little yellow packet still lay.

Napier was torn. He felt good now, amazing, light-headed and carefree, almost good enough to forget all about Crane and Kitty and Jeannie Rose… but there was something pulling him back. He stared at the packet for another moment, then turned, looking towards the door of the bathroom. "I'll be right there," he called again, his voice slightly more nasal than before. He sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, then picked up the little yellow packet with barely shaking hands and opened it. He turned towards one of the drawers, opened it, and, finding nothing, closed it again. Of course, what was he thinking? She would not have syringes randomly lying around.

Napier looked at the little yellow packet, then licked his thumb and tentatively stuck it into the powder. When he pulled it back out, it was covered in yellow, like pollen. Napier hesitated, then stuck it into his mouth. At first, he felt nothing. Then, as soon as it hit the back of his throat, he felt it, an incredible swinging low, but only for a moment. He took his thumb from his mouth and stared at it, swallowing and wetting his lips, then turned his hand palm-up and emptied the yellow powder into it. He stared at it for a long moment, then held it to his mouth and licked his hand.

It was awful and wonderful, all at the same time. The dizzy high the cocaine had given him was being countered by an even more powerful low, from the heroin, and the effect was staggering. He had never felt that way before. It was addicting. He brought his hand away from his face, licking it a few more times to make sure he had gotten everything, then wiped his mouth to make sure there was no leftover residue. Then he turned towards the bathroom door. He could barely find the handle, but he did it, and he turned it, making his way towards Jeanette's bedroom.

Everything seemed to be moving in slow-motion around him. He felt nothing. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, but it did not bother him. He stood in the doorway of Jeanette's bedroom and looked in on her, grinning. "I said I'd come," he told her, moving into the bedroom, his footing steady as he came to sit down on the bed next to her. He raised his eyebrows at her. "I came, didn't I?" He chucked slightly, moving a bit closer to her on the bed. Then he turned away from her and looking at the floor. He took a deep breath, as if to say something, and opened his mouth, but then paused, contemplating, staring at the floor. Then he looked up at her again.

"I totally forgot what I was going to say," he said, giggling. He shrugged. "Isn't that stupid of me?" he asked. He stared at her for a long moment, silently smiling at her. Then, suddenly, he lunged for her, pinning her to the bed, grabbing at her hair, locking his lips over hers, violent and lustful.

"I played doctor, and now you're going to play nurse," he told her through clenched teeth. "I fixed you up, and now you're going to pay me back for that, huh?!" He tore off his shirt, tossing it aside, and then pressed his hands to her hipbones, rocking against her as he pressed his lips ravenously to hers. "Oh, you know I like you, you know I always have," he growled, barely letting her breathe between his rapacious jaw-locks. "And I know you like me, don't you? Of course you do."

He ran his tongue down her throat, down to her stitches, and shuddered slightly when he felt the ridges of the thread. He looked up at her, pushing a swatch of hair from his eyes, panting. "I know where you got that scar," he said. He pressed himself against her again, gripping her ponytail in his voracious lust. "We only have one more night here, baby," he said in a low, rumbling baritone, "let's make it a good one!"

A breaking point typically refers to when one's mental, physical, or emotional strength gives way in a critical situation. The term didn't do Jeanette's reaction justice. She had reached her metaphorical last straw, and even before she reacted she knew things weren't going to get pretty.

Remembering what had stopped this the first time Jack had gone off a little crazier than usual, she slammed her forehead into his. She neglected to remember the only difference between that situation and this: namely, she hadn't just been _shot_ then. Her vision went foggy, and she groaned and put her head in her hands. It took her a moment to get herself together again; she moved sluggishly to the bedroom door and slammed it behind her, sitting down with her back against it to make opening it more of a task.

By that time, her head was clear once more, but her vision was still blurry; the hazy shapes of the living room chairs swam in front of her eyes. The realization dawned on her that it wasn't because she was injured, but because she was so angry. "You're such a fucking _bastard_," she shrieked. "I'm so...I'm so sick of it! Every time - every _fucking_ time I try to help, I turn around and something like this happens. The one time in my life I do something for someone _else_, and of course it has to be _you_ with your drugs and your booze and your goddamn _stupidity._" She wiped her damp eyes with shaking hands, disgusted to find herself acting like the victim again. She'd never been such a helpless idiot before Jack had come along. It made her defensive, and when Jeanette got defensive she tended to lash out.

"You're even too stupid to realize that if you find Kitty, you'll end up being worse for her than Crane _ever_ was! You're an animal, Jack. A _pig_. You can't control yourself. You're just some stupid psychopath who thinks he has to make a name for himself in this shithole." She could've spat in his face, torn him to shreds with her bare hands, done _something_, but she wouldn't risk opening that door. Her shoulder began to burn again; looking down, she saw the skin around it an irritated, angry red. She put a hand on her forehead to find the skin clammy and cool. "Why didn't you just let me _die_?" she asked sarcastically, putting a hand on the aching area around her stitches. "Or do you not have any other sex toys you can throw around with anytime you like? God, you're such a worthless piece of shit."

She caught on to the idea. "You couldn't even _kill_ yourself right!" she shouted, voice starting to grow hoarse. "You're such a fucking failure you ended up _living_. It's pathetic." She slammed a fist into the door, feeling her knuckles bruise on impact. The pain only served to make her angrier. "And if you'd have just fucking _killed yourself_ like you meant to, a lot of people's lives wouldn't be _shit_ right now!"

Everything was silent for a long moment; Jeanette's breathing thundered in her ears, and she leaned her head back against the door. No more regrets. She'd said what she'd wanted to say, and that was that.

Napier fell back onto the bed, dizzy, and put a hand to his head. She was getting up and leaving. He wanted to follow her, but he had to collect himself first. He scrambled upright on the bed and started to go after her when suddenly the door was slammed in his face. From the other side of the door he could hear her screaming at him, saying all those hurtful things, and every last one of them was true. He put a hand on the door handle, to turn it, or break it, to get out and go after her, but then he stopped. Something she had said had struck him.

_"You're even too stupid to realize that if you find Kitty, you'll end up being worse for her than Crane ever was! You're an animal, Jack. A pig. You can't control yourself."_

His eyes went glassy and he looked away, breathing heavily as her words repeated over and over in his head. He rested his head against the door as she finished her angry statement. There was a long, painful silence between the two. Then he wet his lips and swallowed.

"You're right," he said, his voice hoarse. He took a deep breath, letting the statement sink in. "You're right," he repeated, "I _am_ an animal. I _can't_ control myself." He pursed his lips. "I've always tried to kill myself, but I've never been able to. Do you know why that is? Hmm?" He took a sharp breath. "Because I'm too fucking _selfish_ to kill myself," he told her, his voice sharp. "I _like_ living. Is that such a crime?"

He shifted his footing, moving his face close to the door, lowering his voice so she had to listen hard to hear him. "And do you want to know something else?" he asked, his breathing starting to get calmer as he leaned against the door. "Do you?" He opened his eyes and stared at the bed, his jaw clenched. "I raped Kitty, too," he told her. He turned towards the door, leaning heavily on the frame as he spoke to Jeanette through the door. "Do you hear me?" he asked. "_I… raped her._"

He took a deep breath. "Kitty never wanted children," he told Jeanette through the door. "I didn't want children, either. But that didn't mean that I didn't want Kitty." He closed his eyes again. "We tried contraceptives, but she was still afraid… we were barely scraping by with what we were making, between the two of us, and she was scared that one night she'd forget to take her pills, or my condom wouldn't hold up, or…" He shook his head, wetting his lips. "I played along, for a while," he said. "But then one night, I couldn't take it anymore. I'm an animal… like you said. A _pig_." He shrugged, letting out a sharp breath.

"I pinned her against the kitchen counter and had my way with her," he told Jeanette. "She was so small and helpless… she would never have fought back." He paused, looking down at the floor, and shook his head. "And the great irony is, if it hadn't been for Jeannie Rose, both Kitty and I would be dead right now," Napier said.

He paused, looking down at the floor as he thought about what to say. "I was in a… a bad place, in my head," he said. "I had fallen into this… mindset, where I knew that what I was doing was hurting everyone around me, and it was killing me… but I didn't care." He scratched behind his ear, sniffing, as he considered how much to tell her. "We were living in a tiny apartment in the lower-middle class section of Gotham. It was the cheapest place I could find that wasn't in the slums. It was right outside the Narrows, so people had to sell and rent pretty cheap to get people to take up board there."

He folded his hands together to keep from fidgeting. "Kitty and I were the happiest couple you would ever see, when we first got married, but… Gotham has been going through a kind of economic slump, since the death of Thomas Wayne more than twenty years ago. I wasn't in the know at the time of his death, seeing as I was barely old enough to read, but… they told me. I guess Bruce Wayne is trying to get Gotham out of that slump, but…" He shrugged. "It was bad, back then, before Bruce Wayne came back. Poverty and homelessness were definitely things that people had to worry about, and there just weren't enough jobs to go around. I was a high-school dropout, orphan, not smart… nothing about me screamed 'employable'. So nobody employed me."

Napier cleared his throat, wetting his lips. "I did odd jobs every so often, as did Kitty, and we were barely scraping by, just able to pay our rent and buy food. We didn't have the money for niceties. …But then my past started catching up with me." He swallowed. "You've heard about those case studies where the child is separated from their parents at birth, and if the parents have some inclination to do something, then the child will be instantly inclined to do it as well, even if they've never met the parents…?" He looked up at the door, then back at the floor again. "Long story short, I, um… I started drinking. Heavily. And it turned into an addiction." He took a deep breath. "I was… becoming my father," he said, looking up at the door and trying to keep his voice steady.

He bit his lip, fidgeting with his hands. "Well, it wasn't long before the money was all run down. We didn't have much to begin with, and…" He paused. "Then one night, I spent the last of it. All we had left. I went to the bar and I spent it on drinks. Like I said, I was in a very, very bad place in my head. And then I…" He paused again, trying to keep himself steady. "I went home to Kitty and started demanding more money. She looked so scared, so pale… she had never said anything to me about the money before, she had always just stayed quiet and said nothing. But that night, she said to me, There's no money left."

Napier looked away. "It was the truth," he said. "There wasn't any money left. I'd spent it all on my own stupid, selfish addiction. But I wouldn't take no for an answer. I insisted, saying I needed more money, and again Kitty told me that there was no more money… so I started looking for it myself, and I found this little canister in one of the cabinets, of money Kitty and I had been saving up for something special, or in case of emergency… and I took the money." He wet his lips, shaking his head. "Kitty grabbed my arm, trying to keep me from leaving again, screaming frantically… Please, Jack, don't do this… if you take that, we'll have nothing left… Jack, please… but I wasn't listening to her. I was somewhere else entirely."

He put a thoughtful hand to his face, first placing his forehead in his palm, then his cheek, and then letting the hand drop back to his side. "That was the night," he said. He looked up at the blank door. "I was going to end it. That was what I had set as my goal that night. I was going to drink myself to death, and let Kitty go free. She deserved better than me, but… I couldn't stand to see her with anyone else while I was still alive. I was a horrible, selfish, jealous, angry person, and all I ever wanted was for Kitty to love me. But I had it in my mind that the only way I could get her to love me like that was if I were to get out of the way of her being happy. So I was going to kill myself." He nodded thoughtfully to himself, as if trying to justify his thinking. "It was a horrible idea," he said, quieter. "But I… wasn't right in the head. All I wanted was what was best for Kitty, but I couldn't seem to see that it was my stupid, stupid actions that were making her life hell."

Napier glanced back up at the door, wondering if Jeanette was still listening. "I shook her off," he went on. "I was headed for the door. Please, Jack, don't do this, she tried again, but I wasn't listening. Then she sprung the news on me…" He took a deep breath. "Jack, she said… I'm pregnant."

Napier looked down at the floor and took a deep, ragged breath, then shook his head. "That stopped me," he said. "I turned and looked at her, and she just looked back at me… and I knew. I knew she was telling the truth." He unclasped and clasped his hands again, biting his lip. "There was a long moment of silence between us… and then I put the money in her hand and told her, Put this somewhere safe." Napier shook his head again. "That was the night," he said. "If she hadn't been pregnant, if she hadn't wanted so badly for me to keep hanging on to be the father of her child, she would have left me that night." He looked up then, his dark eyes deadly serious.

"I'd never laid a hand on Kitty," he told her, "but if she had tried to leave me, I know I would have killed her."

Jeanette's head tipped subconsciously back into the door in exhaustion. Her head was throbbing and her vision still wavered; she needed sleep if she was ever going to recover from the warehouse trauma, but that wouldn't be happening any time soon.

"What do you want from me?" she asked in a defeated, dull tone. "Pity? I'm out of pity." She shut her eyes, which stung embarrassingly. She forced out a bitter laugh. "If I'd have felt pity for any poor sap I met on the street, I'd have been out of a job real quick." The laughter was choked off by a sudden bout of tears that she hadn't expected. She pushed her knuckles into her eyes, stopping herself from becoming completely hysterical.

"I'm just so done with this," she said, her voice muffled by her hands. "Every time you come back, things just get progressively worse. I can't take it; no sane person could." She sniffed quietly. "What do you _want_ from me?" she repeated. If anything, this new piece of his wretched past was making her more inclined to call the police and have them lock him up so that he couldn't get to Kitty. "What the fuck makes you think you wouldn't kill her the second you found her? She's _pregnant_, Jack. Crane raped her." She shook her head and added, in a low voice, "Just like you did."

Napier shook his head, even though he knew she could not see it. "I don't want your pity," he said, almost spitting out the last word. "I don't want anyone's pity. I'm through with pity. It never got me anywhere in this world." He wet his lips, considering her words. "But every time I come back, you take me in," he pointed out. A strange grin split his lips. "What do I _want_ from you?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. "At the moment, I want to hug you 'til you grunt. I want to fuck you until you _scream,_ Jeanette." He took a deep breath, then growled, "I – want – _you._"

As soon as the rest of her statement left her lips, Napier froze against the door. His eyes grew wide, and he stared at the floor, his breathing heavy. His blood ran cold, his stomach tied up in a knot, and he could feel an icy lump in his throat. She was lying. She had to be lying. This was to get back at him for trying to take advantage of her all those times. It could not be true. Napier opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. Nothing would come out. He turned away from the door, staring at the bed. The wonderful, dizzy feeling that he had been experiencing due to the drugs seemed to have faded away at her statement. It was too much.

It had to be a lie.

"Who told you that, huh?" he said, trying to sound unconvinced, but his voice shook. "Was it Crane? Did he brag to you about it?" He attempted a shaky, false scoff of laughter. "Crane… Crane is a liar. He would never…" He shook his head. "I mean, I don't think it's even _possible_ for him to…" He swallowed, wetting his lips, the grin fading from his face. "It's… it's not the _same thing,_ as…" His jaw trembled, and his breathing quickened. He reached to wipe stinging tears from the corners of his eyes, and then he shook his head, a mad, cold laugh escaping from his throat.

"Of _course_ I'm going to kill Kitty," he said in a shaking voice. "I don't have any other choice. Jeannie Rose, too." He chuckled again, breathy and fanatical. "But of course, you already knew that…" He turned towards the door again, pressing himself almost flat against it. "You know what kind of person I am… jealous, angry, hateful… you know everything about me, don't you?" He clenched his teeth, swallowing. "You _think_ you do," he corrected her. "But you don't. Not really."

Napier moved his hand up the door frame, watching as he absently traced the indents in the wood with his fingers. "I'm a bad person, Jeanette," he told her in a low growl, pressing his body against the door but not trying particularly hard to break it. "I fucked a hooker at my bachelor party, and then I was drunk at the altar. I raped my wife and then told her to get an abortion when she told me she was pregnant." He pressed his face to the door. "I took a job dealing drugs, and took some of the drugs I dealt. I hit Kitty when she was pregnant. I fucked a man in the showers at Arkham Asylum just so I could say that I'd done it. And do you know what?" he hissed. "He _liked_ it."

Napier wet his lips. He was working himself into a frenzy. "There is no white-picket fence existence for me, Jeanette," he told her, his voice cynical and hateful. "There never was. Who am I? Ask anyone, they'll tell you. I'm a sociopath, hiding behind the image of a good father and a good husband, but all I'm _really_ interested in is money, power, and sex. The only reason I want to find Kitty and Jeannie Rose is so I can kill them, so no proof of who I was before now exists. That's why I killed all those other people, and that's why now, I'm going to kill _you._"

He grabbed the handle of the door and twisted it sharply, slamming his shoulder against the door, to give her a little jolt of warning. He chuckled sadistically. "Oh, did that scare you?" he asked. "Or don't you believe me?" He leaned his forehead against the door, wetting his lips and swallowing again. "You know me, Jeanette," he said in a low voice. "Who am I, _really?_ Am I really some dangerous murderer who's been playing you this whole time? You've seen me, _all_ of me… you've seen me cry, you've seen me bleed. You saw me sober, drunk, and high as a fucking _kite!_" He laughed cynically at this.

"So it's up to you," he told her, his breathing heavy. "What do you believe? Hmm?" He let go of the door handle, letting it twist back into place, and paused a long moment, letting her think on his question.

"What do you believe, Jeanette?" he asked.

"I think you're full of bullshit!" Jeanette looked up, hearing him move away from the door for a moment. A glance at the kitchen gave her an idea. She had cleared the apartment of guns when she had gotten her handgun confiscated down at the station; there would be no use in checking the drawers. However, on the counter sat the butcher block. A row of handles that she knew were fastened to very sharp cooking knives were nestled in the wood. She listened in total silence, trying to judge if it would be safe to move away from the door.

She had to try.

"You're too _scared_ to do it," she insisted, slowly shifting into a crouch. "You wouldn't." He had told her the very same thing just a few days ago, and it was all she could think to say. And all this was just a distraction to keep his mind off the idea of breaking through the door, anyway.

"You wouldn't _touch_ me, because you'd be too scared of what would happen. You don't really want me dead. There would be no one left for you: Kitty's gone with Jeannie Rose, who won't trust you any more..." She laughed bitterly. "And those are the only ones who'd care about you in the first place, aren't they?" She got to her feet, judging the distance and keeping her shoulder against the door in case he was about to come out. She'd make it. It would be easy.

She ran, and very quickly discovered it was _not_ easy. She had once again disregarded her injury and her exhaustion. The running turned into stumbling and then almost crawling, until she reached the counter. She grabbed the handle of the largest butcher knife and turned. She would not run. She was tired of running; he was just a stupid man who happened to have a bit more resilience than most other people in this shithole, that was all. Her stubborn pride made her jeer, "So fuck you and your sociopathy and your _sob story_ past."

"Bullshit?!" Napier shouted. "The only one here who's full of bullshit is _you,_ Jeanette! The lock of this door is on _my side!_" He panted, pressing his face against the door. "You can only sit there for so long before I break it down," he growled. "Then you'll have nowhere to hide." He let out a cruel bark of laughter. "Do you really think a door – _any_ door – will hold me?" he asked, his voice getting higher with slight manic. "Do you really think you can stop me from doing whatever the fuck it is I want to do to you, Jeanette? How much power do you really think you have?"

He glanced away, towards the bed, then looked back at the door, swallowing. "Scared?" he exclaimed. "You think I'm scared? Huh?" He slammed his shoulder into the door again, making a small, splintered indent in his side. "Who's scared now, Jeanette?" he asked her, leaning on the door frame, his forehead almost touching the wood of the door. "Huh? Who's scared now?" He panted as he listened to her words, wetting his lips, and shook his head.

"What do you think this is really about, Jeanette?" he asked. "Huh? Do you really think this is about me trying to be loved? Is that what you think?" He chuckled sardonically. "Do you think I want some bratty kid and a woman who's too weak to stand up for herself? Do you?" He repositioned his feet, giving himself a sturdier stance against the door. "Did you not hear me before, Jeanette?" he asked her, an angry, bitter edge to his voice. "I'm not a good person. If I'd wanted that little girl to love me, I would have gone after her before now, to apologize. – Do you think I'm the kind of person who apologizes for _anything?_"

Napier wet his lips, grabbing hold of the door handle again. "I'm going to count to three," he told Jeanette in a growl. "And you're going to move away from the door. You won't get a gun. You won't scream for help." He took a few short, ragged breaths, a mad grin splitting his face. "And then I'm going to rip off your panties with my teeth, and ravage you until I'm satisfied." He let out a sadistic, sensual chuckle, shifting feet as he closed his eyes, pressing his nose and mouth to the cool wood of the door. "I want to taste your _blood,_ Jeanette," he hissed.

He took a deep breath, his chest heaving. "One," he said, wetting his lips again. He let out a short breath of sadistic laughter. "Two," he said, grinning madly. He crouched down, his fingers reaching under the edge of his pants as he pulled a wicked, curved blade from one of his patched socks. He stood again, his jaw almost trembling with insane impatience. "Three," he snarled, and threw the door open, taking two steps towards Jeanette. The sharpened butcher's knife she held in her hand stopped him short. He wet his lips, staring at it, and then swallowed, looking up at her face, the smile fading from his own. A nervous, slightly embarrassed grin twitched at the edge of his mouth as he locked eyes with her.

"Foul play," he said.

Jeanette didn't think, she reacted; she flipped the butcher knife into a more comfortable stabbing position and took a step forward, mirroring him. The wicked-looking knife in his hand stopped her cold.

She could die.

That thought finally got through the blanket of adrenaline and anger covering her like an overcoat. She noticed the phone on the counter, which she could have used to call for help. She remembered the fact that she was in an apartment building; she could have run ten feet and found some bum willing to get out his shotgun to make the creep chasing her back off. He was stronger, faster, and more accustomed to killing than her. Not to mention she'd been shot a few short hours ago, and was suffering from serious sleep deprivation. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_.

Her sensible side told her that it was far too late to talk him down from it, but she tried anyways. "What the hell happened to you?" she asked, a hint of pleading slipping into her tone. "How did everything fall apart so fast? What the fuck did _I_ do?"

Her sudden change in tone stopped Napier dead in his tracks. He stared at her for a long moment, fingering the knife in his hand and staring at the knife she held in hers. He wet his lips, looking down at the floor, then at his free hand, which he held up level with his waist to look at, and then back at her. "I didn't…" His voice was weaker now. It was strange; all the adrenaline, all the pulsing blood, his racing heart, all of it was dropping like a stone. He swallowed, staring at her, then, with a heavy sob, he dropped to his knees, his knife falling at his side and skittering away across the floor.

"I'm so sorry," he sobbed, wretched on all fours in front of her. He put his face in his hands, tucking in on himself as he moaned in self-disgust, hiding himself from her. He let out a howl of despair and clawed at his hair, sobbing into the carpet, then pulled himself into a crawling position and looked in her direction, his eyes level with her thighs. He took a few deep, ragged breaths, then started dragging himself towards her, making the task seem endlessly laborious. As soon as he reached her, he clung onto her, wrapping himself around her waist and legs like a small child, sobbing into her side.

"It's all my fault," he moaned, and heaved a sob, clinging to her, his grip iron-like. He gritted his teeth as he gripped at her pants, almost as if he were afraid to let go. "I never got to say I was sorry," he sobbed. "I never got to tell her I loved her… and Kitty… she never knew how much she meant to me… she never knew…" He slid down her legs, too overwhelmed to hold onto her waist any longer, and held her at the knees, almost horizontal on the floor in his pathetic misery. His eyes were red with tears, his bangs soaked. He bawled like a struck child, holding onto Jeanette as if she were his life-force. "I didn't mean to do it…" he moaned.

Napier tried to catch his breath, and rubbed his face against Jeanette's leg like a domesticated animal in need of love, still heaving breathy sobs. "You're my only friend, Jeanette," he told her, his voice broken by tears. "I can't lose you… if I lose you…" He clung even tighter to her legs. "Please don't leave me," he begged. "I need you, I… I need you." He took a few deep, shuddering breaths. "I… I just can't help myself. I… I don't know w-why." He paused a moment, catching his breath. "When I want someone, when I need someone… I feel like I… I have to _own_ them."

He looked up at Jeanette then, his face pleading. "I could never own you," he told her, shaking his head. He rested his head against her leg, rocking slightly as he clung to her, defenceless. "I just… _need_ you."

Logically, she knew he was just hitting a low after so much drug usage. It was a body's natural reaction; it had just come sooner than either of them had expected. He'd probably - or, rather, _definitely_ - be back to his violent, stupid, off-the-wall self with a few good hours of sleep. She had absolutely no reason to feel pity for him, _especially_ considering what he had just done. But somehow, despite the fact that she understood all of this and was faintly disgusted by it, sympathy hit her like a bulldozer, and her own eyes had begun to water again.

Some people were the kind that brought everyone else down with them. Jack was definitely one of those. Kitty...Jeannie Rose...even Jeanette herself was living proof. Her life had gone to shit since the day she'd taken him out of the rain and offered to work with him. _Business,_ she'd said, _just business_. She crouched down, putting her arms around Jack and letting him bury his face in her shoulder. Somehow, her eyes had begun to sting again, and she found herself drying her tears in his dirty hair. "No, no," she said, running a gentle hand through his hair. "It's okay. It's okay. Calm down."

And some people were the pathetic kind that let the first kind do it. It would seem that she'd become one of them. And she had no idea how it had happened.

Napier wet his lips as Jeanette knelt down to his level, taking him in her arms, letting him cry onto her shoulder. He sniffled, wiping his nose with his hand. She was _pitying_ him. It was a strange feeling, to know that she actually cared for him. He had been debating on it, thinking she might only be interested in having him around so that he could help her attain her own personal goals, but it seemed he had underestimated her. She did have a heart, underneath all the coldness that she emanated, and she actually cared about him, and it _hurt_ her to see him so distressed.

Napier put his arms around her, holding her, crying scarcer tears into her shoulder, and nuzzled up to her neck, resting his head there. "I'm so sorry," he said, his voice quieter now that her ear was right by his mouth. He took a deep breath. "I'm so sorry you got hurt." He brushed his lips against the side of her neck, and then planted a gentle, subtle kiss on her shoulder. "I'm so sorry I pulled you into all of this," he said, daring another, less understated kiss nearer to her collar-bone. "I didn't think… I never thought you would get hurt like that…" He opened his mouth, kissing the base of her neck. "I never wanted you to get hurt…"

He paused a moment, breathing heavily into her dark hair, and then kissed her gently on the ear, his lips trailing down the line of her jaw. "And I'm so sorry… I can't help myself," he said, the misery almost gone from his voice. "I try, god knows I try, but… sometimes it's just too hard…" A faint smile curved up the corners of his lips at this not-so-subtle entendre as he took her hand in his and gently pressed it to his lips, then looked back at her, his dark eyes locking with hers. "You have no idea," he said, shaking his head. "You have no idea how much I've been holding myself back, every day, every hour, every _minute_ since I met you…"

He wet his lips again, holding onto her wrist, not wanting to let her go. "Please, Jeanette," he said, "please, I don't ask much from you, god knows I don't…" He let out an uncomfortable grunt of breath and shifted his position, trying to restrain himself, but it was getting more difficult to do. He looked up at her with sad, pleading eyes. "Just once more," he begged in a quiet voice, a hint of the old mania creeping back into his tone. "I promise, just this once… I'll never ask you again." He took a sharp breath, staring at her intently, and then pinned her on her back on the kitchen floor, his hand still tightly grasping her wrist. He kissed her lips, wanting her, his breathing getting heavier.

"I can't contain myself much longer Jeanette," he warned. He pushed a swatch of hair from his eyes. "We could do it right here, right now, and then it would be over with," he told her, the pitch of his voice rising with excited lust. "Fuck romanticism, we could have it out on the kitchen floor… please." He was begging her. "I _need_ this. I need… _you._" He pressed his body against hers, kissing her throat again. "_God,_ I need you," he said, animalistic. "You wouldn't believe how much I need you right now, Jeanette… I need love, I need someone to love me!"

His eyes locked with hers again, manic, lustful, almost panicked. "You could love me, Jeanette," he told her, a strange, pleading note to his voice. "Please… please, I just need you to love me!"

Kaitlyn was annoyed enough at the prospect of being a rent-a-cop of sorts to the Gotham police force that she didn't notice at first the absence of noise coming from the building as she approached it. It was just one of the cookie-cutter places on the fringe between the main city and the Narrows; nothing important ever happened here, so why were they even bothering with this case?

But Kaitlyn stopped herself there, because even she recognized that that was unfair. If someone needed help, she'd help. That's why she'd gotten involved in criminal justice in the first place, to help people...not to solve crime-puzzles because they were _fun_. It was sad, really, that she had to remind herself of that every once in a while.

Inside, she found the door of the woman who the station officer said had placed the distress call. She spoke with the elderly woman for a few moments, faintly distressed that such a vulnerable old lady was living near such filth and crime. _Only in Gotham,_ she thought, as she thanked the woman and headed up to the second floor. She paused to take out her gun and check that the safety was off. _Only in Gotham._

She put her ear to the door. No sound was coming from inside, besides some faint conversation and...was that someone crying? Kaitlyn frowned, checking the safety again. This was an odd situation, she'd admit. But whether or not _she_ thought there was anything going on in that apartment, she had to check. She put her shoulder to the door, grabbed the handle, and shoved up and forward with considerable strength; the lock popped open, and she immediately scanned the room.

No sign of weapons nearby, except...there, on the floor. Two knives, neither bloodied. That was a good thing. But the not-so-good thing was sitting right next to the knives. If Kaitlyn had never questioned her sanity before, she was certainly doing so now; on the floor sat the Joker (the bizarre scar pattern around his mouth gave him away immediately) and that woman Kaitlyn had nabbed in the station earlier that day. And, oddly enough, they seemed to have more of a relationship than the "business partnership" Kaitlyn had assumed.

She brought her gun to bear on the Joker, then the woman, then the Joker again, indecisive. Finally, she settled her sights on the clown, figuring that he was the bigger threat. "Put your hands behind your head, and no sudden movements," she instructed, finger hovering over the trigger. "I won't hesitate to shoot."


	65. Chapter SixtyFour

Kaitlyn moved her hand slowly down to her pocket, where her cell phone sat nestled inside. She was careful not to make any sudden movements. The fact that she was armed and the other two weren't didn't fool Kaitlyn; she was sure the Joker would have no problem attempting murder with his bare hands.

So now she'd seen all sides of the infamous criminal of Gotham, she figured. Not only was Jack Napier, better known as the Joker, a sociopathic murderer with a flair for the theatrical, but he was also a human being. Or, at least, he had a human being's needs.

Interesting.

Napier let out an agitated growl as he arched his back, moving away from Jeanette, fumbling with his open zipper as he made to turn towards the obvious authority figure who had just entered the room, unwarranted and unwanted. "Could you maybe go away and give us a little privacy?" he asked, not turning to look at her at first, "I'm kinda right in the middle of some–" When he saw the gun she had pointed at him, he stopped mid-sentence. Napier stared at the gun, and then at the girl holding it. This was not the first time he had been at gunpoint, and it would not be the last. He sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, then turned and looked at Jeanette.

"You called the cops?" he asked, cocking his head. He glanced up at the counter, where the phone lay, and grabbed it, brandishing it at her. "You called the fucking cops?!" he demanded again. "I told you not to call them, goddamn it! We had a deal!" With an emphasis on the last word, he smashed the phone on the floor, then turned towards Kaitlyn, getting slowly to his feet as he did so. He was taller than her, and much more muscularly built, but he could not help but be painfully aware of the fact that he was more than half-naked, and his fly was down. That was not the way he wanted to be brought into custody. If anything, he wanted the cops to see him in his full, outfitted glory, not caught unawares in the act of fornication. It was just _embarrassing._

"All righty," he said, slowly moving his hands to his head, knitting his fingers together on top of his matted hair. "Here we are. You got me." He smirked at her. "You gonna take me in? Turn me in to the big boss?" He squinted slightly at her, wetting his lips. "Do you work for Gordon?" he asked. "'Cause I knew there was a lady-cop working for him, but I thought she was more…" He looked Kaitlyn up and down once, raising his eyebrows. "Well, she's Puerto Rican," he said, unable to think of any other way to put it. He removed his hands from his head to make the curvaceous outline of a woman in the air in front of him, then laced his fingers back together on top of his head.

"You know," Napier said, shifting uncomfortably – parts of him were still not agreeing to the sudden drop in excitement – "I'm not really the one you're after. Naw, I'd more go after her." He indicated towards Jeanette with a shrug of his shoulder. "Yeah, 'cause see, she's not only a murderer, but she's involved in all kinds of other shit, too… kidnapping, illegal weapons dealing…" He glanced back at Jeanette. Then he looked at Kaitlyn, grinning. "But despite all that, she's still _great_ in bed," he added as an afterthought. He was obviously amusing himself. Then his expression went deadpan. "Not that it would matter much to _you,_" he said. Then he reconsidered, "Or maybe it would, I don't know… does your door swing both ways, lady-cop?"

Napier took a deep breath, opening his mouth as if to say something, then closed it and giggled. "You know," he said, "I was going to say something, but I totally forgot what it was." He snickered, shaking his head. "Isn't that stupid of me?" he asked, looking back up at Kaitlyn. "But I guess that's what you get, when you do drugs, huh? Mm… your mother always told you not to do drugs, didn't she? I'll bet she did, and that's why you're _you_ and I'm _me._" He wet his lips again, swallowing, and blinked, off-kilter. Then he raised one eyebrow, taking another deep breath.

"Would you like to know hoq I got these scars?" he asked.

"Not really," Kaitlyn replied, pulling her cell phone out of her pocket. She'd give Robert a quick call, and get these two into the station. Then she could go home and sleep. She stifled a yawn, keeping a keen and _very_ cautious eye on the Joker as she speed-dialed Robert's cell phone.

Jeanette watched, still feeling a bit numb. She was tired of being taken advantage of, and that fucking _bastard_ had just done it again. She refused to look at him, instead looking around the room for a way out of this situation. Her knife was sitting a few feet away; Jack's was close by it, where he'd dropped when...

She scowled.

"Hey, Robert, I've got a bit of a situation." Kaitlyn triple-checked the safety on the gun; it continued to be off. She felt a bit a bit paranoid, but it was better to be scared than dead, as much as she hated to admit it. "I just found the Joker and that assassin you've been looking for in an apartment near the Nar..."

She was cut off when Jeanette body-talked her into the nearby wall. The phone slipped out of her hand and hit the wall as well, splitting in two and skittering off across the kitchen floor. "Get OFF!" Kaitlyn shrieked.

Jeanette cut her off by ramming the knife into her right arm. Her face was set in grim concentration. She stabbed down again, catching the cop in her hand. Kaitlyn screamed, clutching her arm in pain, and Jeanette took a deep, steadying breath as she stood up and tried to brush the blood off of her sleeves. She succeeded in only smearing it more across her clothing. She looked at the knife, then up at Jack, and then adjusted the knife in her hand so that its grip was more comfortable.

"If you want to go, let's go," she told him, jerking her head towards the door. She turned, hearing a sound from the floor, where Kaitlyn was reaching desperately for the pieces of her cell phone. Jeanette watched her for a moment, considering.

Then she shook her head. There was no reason to kill the cop. She didn't have any dangerous information to share with the commissioner. Besides, it was unnecessary blood spill. Such a waste.

Napier watched in surprise as Jeanette got to her feet, and, with a skill he did not know she possessed, she took out the lady-cop, crippling her but not killing her. He had been preparing to do something similar, but with his bare hands. His plan had been to snap her spine at the base, near the hip-bone, and fold her in half over the back of the couch for the police to find. Jeanette had spared him that gory manoeuvre, and, for some strange reason, he found himself relieved. He took his hands from his head, watching as Jeanette strode from the room, and took the opportunity to zip up his fly.

"That's it?" he asked. "You're not gonna kill her? Hey!" But he got no response. "Mm," he grunted, a bit miffed. He glanced over his shoulder, towards the bedroom. He would follow Jeanette, but not until he got his personal effects. There was no way he would leave them there for the police to find and take custody of. He watched Jeanette walk out the door, then moved to the bedroom. He ducked to the side of the bed, lifting the sheets, and pulled out his crumpled, blood-stained outfit from underneath the bed. He folded it over his arm and moved to the closet to see if there was anything worth salvaging, but, finding nothing particularly dear, he decided to leave everything there.

"I'm coming, Jeanette," he called when he got into the front-room again. He looked down at the lady-cop on the floor, fumbling with the broken pieces of her cell phone. He frowned down at her, then kicked one of the pieces of the phone a couple of feet away from her with a smirk. Then he bent down to her, looking her in the face. "You're a very lucky lady," he told her. "Hey, I'm talking to you." He took her face in his hand, making her look at him, his dark eyes locking with her lighter ones. "You could have died tonight. You know that, don't you? Hmm?"

Napier nodded, as if speaking to a small child. "Tell your boss, whoever he is, that next time, he better send more than just one lady-cop, if he intends to catch Gotham's greatest criminal mind." His mouth twisted into a strange grimace. "I'm a little insulted, to tell you the truth," he said. He took a deep breath, pausing with his mouth open, then told her, "You know, you might be surprised to know that you're the only lady I know that I haven't tried to bed." His wry grin returned. "I don't know if you should consider yourself lucky… or unlucky, on that account."

He chuckled, letting her back down, and stood again, moving towards the door. He turned back one last time, looked at Kaitlyn, and winked at her, sarcastic. Then he was gone.

Napier moved quickly down the hallway, trying to figure out where Jeanette had gone, and listened. When he heard the faint sound of footprints, he moved towards them until he caught up with Jeanette on the stairwell. He put a hand to his chest, panting, and then offered her an awkward half-grin. All the excitement, the call for clear thinking, had totally cancelled out any high or low he might still have from the drugs he had taken. He wet his lips, glancing over at her, and cleared his throat, pulling out his decorated blue shirt, which was black with dried blood and still had a gaping slash across the front of it.

Sudden guilt filled him as he looked down at his chest, at the healing gash that still marred his chest. He swallowed, looking over at Jeanette again, and then slipped on his shirt, buttoning it up, and then his vest. Then he pulled on his purple coat, wetting his lips, and took a deep breath. "Look, Jeanette," he said in a low voice. He bit his lip, looking away from her. He really did not deserve everything she had given him, everything that she continued to give him. She was far too good for him, and he had taken advantage of that goodness, several times. And yet she continued to help him.

It made no sense. If he had been in the same situation, where someone larger than himself, mentally unstable, and undeniably dangerous had tried to do something to him like what he had done to Jeanette – _four times_ – he would not have even considered continuing to help that person. He would have put a bullet in the back of their head, or a knife. Not only did Jeanette not attack him physically, she took him back again and again. He felt like he owed her his life, and so much more. He looked over at her again.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. He looked away, raising his eyebrows. "For everything," he added. Then curiosity got the better of him, and he looked back at Jeanette again. "Just… out of curiosity, if nothing else," he said, wetting his lips, unsure of how to ask her. "I mean, it's an odd question, but… every time you try to be kind to me, I always take advantage of your kindness, and… I know I'm a bad person, and that no one in their right mind would want anything to do with me…" He bit his lip, trying to figure out what it was he wanted to ask. "I don't really know how to ask you this, but I guess what I'm wanting to know, is…"

He looked up at her again and asked, "Why… do you keep taking me back?"

"Don't...even talk to me," Jeanette warned, fingers tightening on the handle of the blade she still held. It felt like a sort of protection, keeping the real world away for another precious few seconds. "Don't say _anything_. I'm so fucking close to just..." She drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, pausing at the stair landing.

"Because I'm as crazy as the rest of this goddamn town," she said angrily, whipping around to face him. "Because maybe all those years of working alone made something snap in my head." Some of the anger cooled from her tone, and a bewildered look flashed across her face momentarily as her eyes trailed aimlessly away. "I don't know. I have no idea." She felt helpless; she was usually in charge of her own emotions and actions, but this felt...different, somehow.

She hadn't killed that cop. That in itself was a blessing. She'd never been so tempted to hack something to death with a knife before; that wasn't how she operated. She didn't have the streak of hot-bloodedness that ran so deeply in Jack's veins. She was a cold, precise assassin, not a murderous psychopath.

At least, she assumed she still was.

She sighed. "If I end up screwing myself over, so be it," she finished with a shake of her head. "The police will probably be showing up soon; the first part of her call would've gotten through." She headed down the stairs. "Let's go."

Napier swallowed, watching as Jeanette flew into an emotional rage, and then settled back down. He raised his eyebrows. A few of the things she had said were a bit distressing, especially the part about being as crazy as the rest of the town. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand, then cleared his throat, wetting his lips. He wanted to say something, wanted to tell her how sorry he was for everything he had done to her, but her sharp retort for him to keep quiet made him keep his mouth shut. He leaned against the wall, letting her pass by him, continuing down the stairs. He let her get a few paces ahead, then turned and followed.

She had a point, he had to admit to himself. Working alone for too long did strange things to people who would otherwise be totally normal citizens. Being alone for too long did the same thing. He knew that he would never be able to love another woman like he had so thoroughly convinced himself that he had loved Kitty, and perhaps that was the same way with Jeanette. Perhaps something had happened to her in her past that made her the way she was today, the cold, meticulous assassin who folded at the sight of a wretched mess. He knew what it was that made her not trust him, or any other man, but he was not sure what made her have such a weak spot for those who were unable to take care of themselves.

Suddenly he felt a cold sickness in his stomach as he thought of all the times he had tried to force himself onto her, even after she had told him about how she had been hurt in the past by another man, and how that experience had made her never want to be intimate with another man again. He looked away from her, his head hung, biting his lip, and swallowed. He glanced fleetingly over at Jeanette. She had said that she had never been a mother, or had ever wanted to be one, but there was something about that statement that just did not add up, to Napier. She had been so good with Jeannie Rose, and her motherly nature had shone through every time he had broken down in front of her, or needed her care.

Napier glanced up at Jeanette, frowning slightly. He could tell that she had not always been the way she was now, but it was only up to debate and wondering what kind of person she had once been. He did not feel comfortable asking, but there was no other way he would find out. If Jeanette were to come to her senses, she would get rid of him, and quickly. If she were any kind of smart, she would kill him. He looked at the knife still held in her hand, and decided to take a chance at talking again. They reached the bottom of the stairs, and he turned to her, stopping in his tracks, and took a breath.

"Did you ever have children, Jeanette?" The question was out of his mouth before he could stop himself. He swallowed, looking away, embarrassed, then looked back up at her. He took another deep breath, then wet his lips. "It's not meant to be an intrusive question, but I couldn't help but notice…" He stopped again. This conversation was going nowhere. He looked away, shaking his head.

"Nevermind," he said, turning away from her. "Come on, let's get out of here before the cops come."

Jeanette's shoulders tensed automatically at that word - "children". Her blood seemed to freeze in her veins, but she calmed herself and pushed open the door to the complex. "Right," she mumbled, trying to focus on where they'd go.

But her mind was still caught on his question. Had she had...children? What would possess him to think about that, much less ask? Her fingers, wrapped around the hilt of the knife, tightened. At least she didn't have to _answer_, because that would mean bringing up a whole slew of other questions that she didn't - or couldn't - answer.

"The Iceberg Lounge," she finally said, wrenching her mind to the present. "I can't think of any other place to go." She looked back at Jack, thinking. "We'll have to go in the back way, so you don't attract attention, but...I don't know who else to trust any more." She frowned; it was a sad realization. "If Os is there, I'm sure he'll have some ideas. We've just got to lay low for a bit."

Napier watched Jeanette. She had reacted so strangely to his question, it almost made him wonder whether he had hit on something sensitive. Perhaps she had had children at one time, but she had lost them to death, or to the man who betrayed her, or even to the black market. It was an obscure possibility, thought Napier, but a legitimate one, nevertheless. Or maybe she was unable to have children, and that was what drove her to try to become the best she could be by herself, why she strove to take solace in no one man, but only temporary respite in quick flings with people she never had to see again. Or perhaps she wanted children, but her life was so unstable that she had never been able to settle down and have them.

He suddenly felt very guilty for all the times when he had acted so horrendously towards Jeannie Rose in front of Jeanette. It had never occurred to him that Jeannie Rose might be something more than just the "child of an acquaintance" to Jeanette. He walked beside her in silence, following her out onto the dark street, stuffing his hands into his pockets. Stars danced around the edges of his vision, and he had an odd, inflated feeling in his lungs, as well as a spinning sensation that still lingered, though it was becoming less and less reassuring as they went further and further away from any kind of haven. He did not know what kinds of things they might encounter, and he needed to be on top of his game for that. The fact that he was not was something he was sure would come back to haunt him, in time. All his stupid actions did.

When they finally reached the dark alley that ran behind the familiar Iceberg Lounge, Napier looked around at the locale. It was dimly lit, which was to be expected, and a black cat slunk behind the trash-bin that sat on one side of the alley. It was empty, at the moment, and the place was unnaturally devoid of any kind of scent whatsoever. Napier assumed that the owner must be meticulous about that kind of thing. Just as the two of them were about to reach the back entrance, Napier reached out a hand, stopping Jeanette from taking another step towards the back door of the Iceberg Lounge, and then put out his other arm, pinning her against the wall of the alley.

Napier stared her straight in the eyes, breathing heavily, the line between his eyes creased as he stared her down. She was not scared of him, and he knew it. If anything, he was nothing but a bother to her, someone who constantly got in the way, just another obstacle she had to get out of her way, and she had no trouble using force to get him out of the way. "Wait," he said, his voice sombre. He wet his lips and swallowed, staring her down, and took a breath. "Before we go inside… we need to talk."

He looked down at the ground for a moment, thinking about how to talk to her, then looked up at her, his dark eyes locking with hers. "I wasn't lying when I said I raped Kitty," he told her. "That wasn't just the drugs talking. A lot of the shit I said back there was just the… the smack, or the coke." He took a deep breath. "I would never kill you," he said, hesitantly reaching out a hand and touching her cheek with his fingertips. He felt a warm rush go through his body when he touched her, from his fingers to his feet, and tried to ignore the strange, tingling sensation he felt in the cavity of his chest as he removed his hand from her face and put it on the wall again, pinning her to the wall once more. "I meant what I said when I told you that you were my only friend," he told her, his expression darkening even more. "And I… meant it when I told you that I feel I have to own people."

Napier leaned in closer to her, so close he was sure she could smell the faint, still-lingering scent of marijuana on his lips and clothing. "Do you want to know the truth about me?" he asked, frowning deeply. His dark eyes searched hers, looking for a glimmer of sympathy, a trace of understanding. He leaned in towards her a bit. "I'm not a good person," he told her. He took a breath. "Everything I told you back there was true. I _was_ a horrible person. And I spent five years in Arkham because of it. _Five years_ – that's a little less than a _fifth_ of my life." He looked away, ashamed of himself. "I _was_ drunk at the altar," he admitted. "I raped my wife, and… I told her to get an abortion." He paused. "And, when she was pregnant, I… hit her." Then his eyes returned to her face. "But I would never kill her," he told her. He shook his head slowly, wetting his lips. "I would never lay a harmful finger on her, or Jeannie Rose, no matter what I said."

He swallowed, moistening his palate awkwardly, and took another deep breath. "Kitty means the world to me," he told Jeanette in a low voice. "Even though it may seem like I was nothing but horrible towards her, I loved her with all my heart, and I still do. I was a bad person, but I've _changed._" He wet his lips, looking away, trying to think on his feet, then looked back at Jeanette. "I'm not the man I used to be," he told her. "I don't want to hurt people anymore. That's not _me_. That's… that's some adverse side effect from the alcohol, or the drugs, o-or… god, I don't even know anymore." He put a hand to his head, then quickly took it away. "All you know of me is the Joker. You've never gotten to see me as anything but a monster, but I swear to you, Jeanette, that's not really _me._ I'm a _man,_ not a monster. There is a beating heart under this…" he thought about it for a moment, then spat, "_freakish_ exterior."

Napier clenched his jaw, searching Jeanette's face. "Do you have any idea what it's like to have a child, Jeanette?" he asked. "To look at this little creation and see… your own eyes, staring back at you? Your… your hair, your hands… two little pink shoes with flowers on the sides where they buckle…" He looked up at her, his breathing somewhat staggered. "You think I don't notice these things," he told her, "but I do." He cleared his throat, trying to swallow down a lump that was forming in it. "She's my daughter," he told Jeanette. "And he has her. He has her, and he has Kitty. Now, I don't know if you're still with me on this, but even if you're not…" He wet his lips again, anxiously. "Even if you're not, I wanted you to know that I could never have gotten this far without you."

Napier looked up at her, his eyes locking with hers. "You mocked me for never being able to properly kill myself," he told her. "But it's not really my fault. It's yours." He stared at her, keeping her eyes on his. "If it hadn't been for you, driving me with your… your taunts, your threats, your… absolutely fucking infuriating, stuck-up pigheadedness…" He paused, the strange, choked feeling returning to his chest. "I would be dead right now," he said, "and Jeannie Rose would never have a father. Somehow, with all the… the cruel things you say to me, with all the… the… the ways you fight me, both physically and emotionally, you…" He had to take a moment, swallowing back down the lump in his throat. "…You make me want to be a better person," he told her. "And I am… so sorry, for everything I've ever done to hurt you."

He looked away for a long moment, closing his eyes, trying to settle his heart rate, taking deep, settling breaths. Then he looked up at Jeanette again, his expression strange and sad. "I'm not going to ask you about your past," he told her. "That's none of my business. I was intruding where I wasn't welcome." He swallowed, his breathing calm and steady. "But… back there," he said in a lower voice, "when you said that… Crane had raped Kitty, and gotten her pregnant…" He bit his lip. It was hard to even think about something like that, much less actually talk about it. "You… you were just bullshitting me, right? I mean, you were just trying to get a reaction from me. That isn't the truth…" He looked up at her, his dark eyes pleading, hoping she was not about to tell him what he knew she was. Jeanette never said things just to shock him, or to get a reaction from him. She always told him straight. She had no reason to lie to him. It just was not in her character.

Napier swallowed, staring at her. "Right?" he asked again, his voice hoarse.

"Since when do I lie?" Jeanette replied, her tone an odd mixture of anger and sadness - what he'd said about her, her "stuck-up pigheadedness", had certainly struck a chord in her pride, but she couldn't kick someone while they were down. Well...at least not Jack. Her eyes refused to meet his, looking instead to the knife in her hand. When he realized what had happened to Kitty, would he react violently? And why not? His pride wouldn't let him accept that this had happened to his own wife when he wasn't there to do anything about it.

She sighed. "I can't know for sure, if he got her pregnant or not," she finally said, hesitantly. "I mean...Fine. I could tell. _Anyone_ could tell. Morning sickness, exhaustion, mood swings..." Her voice trailed off, and her expression turned hard before she met his gaze with a challenging stare. "So what are you going to do about it?"

It scared her beyond belief, in ways that she wouldn't ever show to anyone (least of all Jack) that he'd beaten his own wife, raped her, even nearly forced her to an abortion. No woman should ever have had to go through what Kitty had lived with; everything in Jeanette's conscience told her that. But now he said he'd changed? And she was supposed to just believe that? Could she? She looked Jack in the eye, long and hard.

Suddenly, Jeanette didn't feel cornered any more; the situation had changed. This was on _him_; it all was. And it was up to him to fix it. "So you were a bad person, and you say you've changed? Prove it. Get her back, if you want her back." She took a deep breath, knowing what she was about to say and how much more it would fuck up her life. "I'll help if I can, but...that's all. It's on you now. If you want to do something about it, then _do_ it. Fix this." A spark of grim humor lit her eyes; she smirked, and added, "Or do you think it'll be too _hard_?"

Napier paused, staring at Jeanette for a long moment, and then the edge of his mouth began to turn up. He quickly stopped it, pursing his lips back into a serious frown and clearing his throat. "You're making fun of me again," he said. He swallowed, taking a breath. "I guess I deserve it, after all I've done to you." He took a step back from her, moving his hands away from the wall, letting her free to move once more. He had totally forgotten about the knife in her hand, and, now that he saw it, he realised he was lucky she had not decided to stab him for getting so close to her again.

She was infinitely trusting of him, something he did not deserve. Then again, he realised, there were probably worse ways she could have hurt him, had he tried anything funny. That, or she did not believe he was worth wasting her time on. That would explain why she was making fun of him when he was baring his soul to her. He considered countering with a sex joke of his own, but he was not sure that was such a good idea. He had tried to take advantage of her one too many times for his jokes to be seen as just jokes. Besides, he was in no mood for repartee. He had just opened up to her and told her, flat-out, about what a horrible person he had been, and all she could do was make witty banter about his genitals.

Suddenly, it hit him that she might have been trying to cover for something, though he did not know what. Anger, perhaps. It would make sense that she would be angry at him for what he had done; any woman in their right mind would hate him for what he had done to Kitty, poor, defenceless, tiny Kitty. But if she had been angry at him, she would have let him know. Jeanette was not the passive-aggressive type. If she had an issue with him, she would have told him, or tried to attack him. She was doing neither, so it could not have been anger. Perhaps sympathy? But when she felt sympathy for him, she would usually show it. As odd as it seemed for someone with Jeanette's cold disposition, she would drop her icy demeanour and melt into his arms, taking him close, telling him everything would be okay. So then what could it be?

And then suddenly it hit him. She was _afraid_ of him. Jeanette, who was afraid of nothing, had finally found something that scared her, and she did not know how to react to it. He frowned. It was not new to him, to be feared. Plenty of people feared him in Gotham, mostly because of his antics as the Joker. But he was not being the Joker now. Now, he was just being Jack Napier. And _that_ was what scared her. He was human, after all, but he was not the human she had expected him to be, not the human she thought she had fallen in love – or at least in _lust_ – with. He was not happy, silly, clumsy Jack anymore. Now he was raw Jack, a wife-beating, drug-abusing alcoholic whose past was finally coming back to haunt him. It was no wonder why he had spent so much time and effort trying to run from his past, fabricating details about how he got his scars to entertain the masses. No matter how he painted it, every scars story made him into the victim, when in reality, he had been anything but.

Napier wet his lips, taking another hesitant half-step back, staring at Jeanette. "I didn't mean to hit her," he told her, as if it made any difference. "And I… I didn't mean it, when I told her to… get an abortion." Even though it was the truth, it was sounding horribly fabricated, coming from his mouth. "I was just… I was upset. I was upset, and I was…" He looked at the ground, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "I was drunk," he added in a low voice. He bit his lip, shaking his head slightly. "That's… no excuse, I know, but… it's not like I could just sober up and fly right, there were other… things…"

He stopped suddenly, looking up at Jeanette, as if he was only suddenly becoming aware of the fact that he had been rambling. He hesitated a moment, then turned away from her, embarrassed, and scuffed his shoe against the ground. "Nevermind," he mumbled. "You don't have time for my fucking sob stories." He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his coat and walked past her, towards the back doors of the Lounge. "Let's just go see Os," he said, pulling open one of the doors and letting himself in.

. . .

Bard drummed his fingers on the desk, staring irritably at his now-empty coffee cup. He checked his watch and let out a growl of irritation. If Kaitlyn and Robert did not show up soon, he was going to dock their pay.

He glanced over at Dinah's picture and sighed. He reached for the phone, considering calling her again, then stopped, withdrawing his hand. He could not give her the impression that he was overly fond of her, even if he was. He wanted her to be happy, and if that meant not having him intruding on her every few minutes, then he was only too glad to let her have her space. She was young, after all. She needed to be free. He liked that about her, though it did make him a bit jealous to think of her spending time with some handsome young hunk while Bard worked his tail off at the Secret Service.

Bard folded his arms, leaning back in his chair, and stared at the screen of his computer, where his half-finished game of Solitaire stared back at him, unyielding. He frowned at it, then closed out the game and got up from his chair, grabbing his briefcase and turning to leave. Just then, the phone started to ring. He turned and stared at it for a moment, frowning. Then it rang again. Bard set his briefcase down, sat back down in his chair, and hesitantly picked up the phone.

"Hello?" he asked.

"Yes, hello, is this Jason Bard, head of the Gotham division of the Secret Service?" The voice was familiar, but not one of Bard's favourites to hear.

"Most of the time I tell people I'm the head of a newspaper printing company," Bard answered.

"You might want to rethink that," Gordon told him. "People will start to wonder why your company never turns out any newspapers."

"What can I do for you, Gordon?" Bard asked, leaning back in his chair. He picked up his coffee cup distractedly, then, realizing there was nothing in it, set it back down again. "I've got my two best people on the Joker case. Have you got any news on that for me?" He picked up a pen, clicking the end of it in and out.

"Nothing on the Joker case," Gordon said, matter-of-factly. "But we do have two new cases for you to look into."

"Well, why can't _you_ do it, Gordon?" Bard asked. "You've got your own little station, with your own little police force… why can't they do their job?"

"Because we _don't_ have our own little station, not anymore." Gordon's voice was a little peeved. "It was on the news, Bard. Don't you watch the news?"

"Sorry, I forgot to ask them to install a television in my office," Bard answered, just as sharply. "I'll remember to do that next time we all get raises and bonuses." Bard could hear Gordon sigh over the line. Then he softened. "What happened to the police station, Gordon?" he asked.

"It's been totally sabotaged. Again," Gordon said, sounding bitter. "Worse than last time. The Joker turned over tables and ripped phone cords out of the walls, smashed the lights, just destructive. This time it was meticulous. All the phone lines were cut. All our papers, all the records, they were burned. The place was full of smoke and fear gas. All the felons and witnesses we had locked up in the holding cells were let go. And the worst part is, Crane erased our tapes of the witnesses identifying his crimes and recorded over them with a warning, and requesting for us to have the Joker find him."

"So you know it was Crane that did it, huh?" Bard asked, tapping the end of the pen thoughtfully against his lips.

"We're positive," replied Gordon. "He left all kinds of evidence. He wanted us to know it was him."

"Uh-huh," said Bard, clicking the end of the pen. "So what do you want me to do about it? Send in a clean-up crew to fix it all up?"

"No, that's not what I need from you," Gordon said. "There was a double-homicide today, at a hotel just down the street from the Iceberg Lounge. You've heard of the Iceberg Lounge, haven't you?"

"Sure, I've heard of it," Bard replied. "Supposed to be really posh. Run by some fairy."

"It's also been a hotspot for suspected illegal activity, but we can never seem to catch them in the act," Gordon added. "But that's not the point. The people who were murdered were good friends of the owner of the Iceberg, Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot."

Bard chuckled. "That's quite a name," he commented.

"This is serious business, Bard," Gordon said, unamused.

"Oh, I don't doubt that for a minute, Gordon," said Bard. "Please, continue."

"Cobblepot called the police to the scene of the crime," Gordon went on. "There were two people there, a Grace Balin and an Arnold Wesker, who had both been shot, execution-style. The murder weapon and a piece of telltale evidence were both found at the scene of the crime. We arrested the person the evidence pointed to…"

"Well, good," Bard cut over him. "Sounds like you don't need me, after all."

"The person we arrested was Harvey Dent."

There was a long silence. Bard stopped tapping his pen against the desk. "The DA?" he asked. He scoffed in disbelief. "That can't be right, Gordon. I mean, he's… he's the goddamn DA! 'I believe in Harvey Dent', and all that…?"

"I know," Gordon consented. "Which is why we need your help. Whoever it was obviously wanted us to believe that it was Harvey Dent who committed the murders. However, the police station is not equipped to do that kind of investigation, at this point in time. We need to fix up the station, and then we can start functioning normally. Until then, I really need you or someone from your office to work on this case. Can you do that?"

Bard sighed, agitated, and glanced at his picture of Dinah. Then he reached out, laid it face-down, and took a breath. "I'll see if I can't get one of my people on it," he said. Then, considering, he asked, "What all needs to be done, Gordon? Questioning witnesses?"

"You need to question the co-owner of the Lounge," Gordon told him. "Margaret Pye. She might know something about the two, maybe someone who had a grudge against them, or against Cobblepot… and see if you can't get anything from the person at the front desk of the hotel."

"Right," said Bard, nodding. "I'll get on that tomorrow. Keep your guys on Miss Pye for now, make sure she doesn't go anywhere, or try anything funny. Tonight, I need to go home. Anything else?"

Gordon paused for a long moment. Then he asked, "Yeah… how's that new girlfriend of yours doing, Bard?"

Bard frowned and hung up the phone. "Prick," he growled. Then he checked his watch again and sighed. "Goddamn it, Tassle and Creed," he muttered. He looked at the picture of Dinah, and set it upright, looking at her. Then he put it face-down again and folded his arms, leaning back in his chair again.

"Goddamn it," he breathed.

Bard paused, then picked up a pen and a scrap of paper and contemplated what to write on the note he would leave on the door of his office for Robert and Kaitlyn to find. After much deliberation, he decided on a short note. It read, "You two got lucky. – Bard". Bard smirked as he taped it to the door, and then locked the door behind him with his key. He flipped off the lights, leaving the note to be found by his top two agents. He should have been home hours ago, and he was not about to keep Dinah waiting any longer than he had to.

. . .

Reece pushed open the doors of the Iceberg Lounge, slouching dejectedly as he made his way to the bar and sat down, folding his hands on top of the counter. He felt awkward and stiff sitting there, being a man of short stature, but he was not thinking about that at the moment. Reece had been having a terrible day, and all he wanted to do was have a quick drink and then go home to his toy poodle and mope around in his bathrobe and socks. Reece looked up towards the pretty bartender and stared at her intently, hoping it would make her look his way. After a moment, she did turn and look at him, and then moved down the counter towards him, offering him a polite smile.

"A new face," she said, sounding generally pleased to see him. "We don't usually see a lot of those around here. Mostly just the regulars. What can I do for you, sir?"

"I'd like a martini," Reece sighed. "Dry, extra olives."

Maggie set to making the drink, watching Reece's face as she did so. "Bad day?" she asked, dropping three olives into the glass as she handed it to him.

Reece nodded, taking the martini, and sipped at it, frowning. "Don't get me started," he grumbled, picking out one of the olives and popping it into his mouth.

"Oh, sweetie, we all have bad days sometimes," Maggie reassured him. "Sometimes, you just have to tell somebody about it."

Reece looked up at Maggie, chewing thoughtfully on the olive, then swallowed. "I graduated from NYU with top marks, and I can't seem to find a job," he told her. "I… I tried to apply for one this morning, at Wayne Enterprises, since their last accountant lost his job…"

"And his _head,_ so I've heard," Maggie commented. "Please, continue."

Reece stared at her, thrown off, then began again, "I… I tried to apply for the job this morning, but I ended up talking to Mr. Fox, Mr. Wayne's personal assistant, and, uh… apparently I walked in on the middle of a funeral that Mr. Fox was attending for his sister. Awkward." He took another sip of the martini, fishing out a second olive and putting it in his mouth. "He made me feel like a total idiot," he said, a slightly self-righteous bite to his voice as he tried to talk and chew the olive at the same time. He finished the olive, swallowing, and then looked up at Maggie again. "I had to leave, I… I couldn't stay there and be made to look like a _fool._"

"So that's it?" Maggie asked. "You're not going to try to talk to Mr. Wayne about it?"

"H-how _can_ I?" Reece stuttered. "I made a total ass of myself in front of Mr. Fox – or, rather, _he_ made a total ass of _me_ – but either way, I'll never be able to show my face around Wayne Enterprises again." He finished the martini, pulling out the last olive from the bottom of the empty glass. "That's where I always wanted to work," he said, considering the olive. "My one big chance, and I blew it." He sighed, bitter, and put the olive in his mouth, chewing darkly on it, staring off in no general direction.

Maggie considered Reece for a long moment, taking his empty glass and starting to clean it, when suddenly Tally came up and stood beside her, staring down at her, arms folded. Maggie turned and looked at him, then put a delicate hand to her chest. "Oh, Tally," she said. "Thank goodness you're back. I was beginning to worry something had happened to you. I've got the bar covered, but why don't you go stand out front and be a bouncer? It's getting to be that time of night when we need one…" Tally nodded wordlessly and turned to go stand at the door of the Lounge. Maggie smiled as she watched him leave. "He's such a doll," she told Reece. "A big, gentle giant… totally silent, though." She shook her head, her expression quizzical. "It's the strangest thing," she mused.

Then she turned back to Reece with a smile. "Anyways," she said, "what were we talking about? Oh, yes. This job of yours." She set down the now-clean glass and rested her palms on the counter. "I don't think you made an ass of yourself," she told him. "I think you just proved how determined you were to get that job."

Reece looked up at her, raising his eyebrows. "You really think so?" he asked.

Maggie nodded, and smiled at him. "Do you want to know what I'd do, if I were you?" she asked. "I'd go right to Wayne, next time I got the chance, and I'd tell him how much I wanted that job. First give him the run-down on your education, then you tell him how much this job means to you." She winked at him. "I guarantee you'll get that job, if you just appeal to Mr. Wayne's sympathy."

Reece hesitated, and then a shy smile began to spread across his face, showing off his buck teeth. "Yeah?" he asked. He looked away, nodding to himself. "Yeah," he said, "yeah, I think I will. I think I will talk to Wayne about it!" He looked back at Maggie, taking her hand in his, and smiled at her. "Thank you so much," he said. With slightly shaking hands, Reece pulled his wallet from his pocket and took out a five, placing it on the counter. "Keep the change," he told Maggie. Then, like a springy rabbit, he jumped up from his seat and darted out the front doors of the Lounge.

Maggie smiled, chuckling to herself, and picked up the bill, stashing it in her pocket. She would add it to the safe-box when she got a chance. Then she pulled out her cleaning-cloth and started to clean the counter with it in distracted circles. She sighed, thinking to herself, and then looked up in time to see Tally coming back inside. She smiled at him. "He was quite an excitable thing, wasn't he?" she asked. Tally said nothing, only stared at her, expressionless. Maggie shook her head, still smiling. "Well, I'm glad I could help him, in any case," she said, quieter.

Maggie paused, and then looked up at Tally again. "Have you seen Os?" she asked, frowning slightly. "He left about an hour ago to go check up on Grace and Arnold, and I haven't seen him since… he said he would only be a half-hour or so." Then her expression softened. "Oh, but I'm sure it's nothing," she said, waving it off with a flip of her hand. "They probably got to talking and forgot about the time… it's fine. I mean, they're his dearest friends, and…" She stopped, looking up and clutching her cleaning-cloth, and then sighed, looking over at Tally again.

"Tally," she said, making sure to word her question carefully, "do you think that Os might be romantically interested in… either of them?" She stared at him for a long time, then turned back to cleaning the counter. "Not that it really matters," she added as an afterthought. "I was just… curious." She shrugged. "I mean, he seemed ever so excited to see Grace, much more excited than he's ever been to see me, and the way that puppet made him laugh, I…" She paused in her cleaning again, looking forlornly down at the cloth. Then she smiled and shook her head.

"Well, it doesn't really matter, anyways," she said, her voice quiet. She gave Tally a sad smile, which he did not return, and then dropped the cleaning-cloth behind the counter. Maggie looked up at the patrons in the Lounge and raised her eyebrows. "Not much of a crowd tonight," she said, trying unconvincingly to change the subject. She folded her hands together in a somewhat nervous fashion. "But that's to be expected, I suppose," she said, shrugging. "It is a Monday, after all."

. . .

Dent glared at the officer who had seated him at the interrogation table, watching as the man left the room, seeming a little bit nervous. The fact that the man was somewhat intimidated by him made Dent feel a little better about the whole situation, but not much. He folded and unfolded his hands, tapping his handcuffs on the table as he waited for someone to come in and tell him what was going on. Finally, he heard the sound of the buzzer as the door opened again, and Gordon came into the room, holding a set of keys. Dent gave him a relieved, though somewhat peeved smile.

"So you finally decided I'm innocent, huh, Gordon?" he asked.

Gordon reached down for Dent's handcuffed wrists and unlocked the cuffs, clipping them onto his belt, then looked up at Dent. "Cobblepot agreed to talk to you. We made arrangements for you to speak to him about the situation, but you will be under surveillance." He looked over towards the two-way mirror, then back at Dent. "Don't say anything stupid," he warned him.

Dent scoffed. "You can't really still think I killed those people, Gordon?" he asked, incredulous.

Gordon took a deep breath. "I really don't know what to think anymore, Harvey," he told him. He raised his eyebrows. "I made arrangements for Jason Bard to do some investigative work into the case, though. If anyone can prove your innocence, it's Bard."

"Bard, the guy who runs the newspaper company?" Dent asked, frowning. "What's he got to do with anything?"

Gordon gave Dent a reassuring half-smile, then turned away from him. When he got to the door, the buzzer sounded again, and Gordon let himself out. Dent could hear faint voices outside the door, and then it buzzed open again and Cobblepot stepped into the room. He looked gaunt, his usually life-filled eyes dull and cold, his complexion pale. His usually meticulous blond hair was slightly untidy, and his bowtie was coming undone. Cobblepot pulled on the front of his jacket, smoothing it out, then crossed to the table and sat down across from Dent, folding his hands in front of him.

Dent leaned forward towards Cobblepot. "Os, this is ridiculous," he said. "They say you think I killed your friends. I had no reason to kill them. I like your friends."

"You didn't like Arnold," Cobblepot countered. "If I remember correctly, you flared up at him quite violently when he called you a 'fag' in jest."

"Okay, one, he wasn't joking when he called me that," said Dent. "And two, I wouldn't kill him over something like that! I'm not _that_ sensitive. Sure, I've got a quick temper, but I don't murder someone just because they called me a derogatory name."

"It would have ruined your career," Cobblepot pointed out. "Not to mention your social life."

"Let's just get something straight here, first of all," Dent said. "I'm not gay."

"Tell that to Shawn Palmer, the mayor's assistant," said Cobblepot, sounding detatched.

Dent glanced quickly over towards the two-way mirror, and then back at Cobblepot. "Don't say things like that!" he hissed. "They can hear every word we say!"

"I realise they can," Cobblepot answered, raising his eyebrows.

Dent frowned. "So what, now, you're out to get me, too?" He scoffed, incredulous, and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "I can't believe you, Os, after everything I've done for you…"

"Shall we get back on topic?" Cobblepot asked.

Dent paused, then nodded, leaning forward again. "All right," he said, letting out a deep breath. He looked straight at Cobblepot. "I didn't kill your friends, Os," he told him.

"Your gun was at the scene of the crime, Harvey," Cobblepot countered. "Your coin was also there."

"My –" Dent patted his pockets, searching for his lucky coin, but, finding nothing, he looked up at Cobblepot in a panic. "I… I must have lost it somewhere! I must have lost it, and someone must have picked it up. Goddamn it…" He put his head in his hands, leaning his elbows on the interrogation table. "I never go anywhere without that coin… where could I have lost it? _How_ could I have lost it?"

"You could have lost it at the scene of the crime, when you shot Arnold and Grace," Cobblepot suggested, coldly monotone.

"It wasn't me, Os!" Dent exclaimed again, agitated. "It couldn't have been me. I was at a funeral, and then I went to see you at the Lounge. I went home after I left the Lounge. I was busy at the time the murders occurred."

"Busy?" Cobblepot asked. "Busy with what?"

Dent blushed slightly. "I was just _busy_, all right?" he said sharply.

"Fine, then, be mysterious," Cobblepot said. "But that still doesn't explain how your gun got from your house to the hotel down the street when the murders took place." He raised an eyebrow. "Unless of course you are suggesting that it acquired a life of its own and went there, itself?"

"My house was broken into and ransacked!" Dent exclaimed. "They didn't take anything except my gun! No money, none of Rachel's jewellery, nothing!"

Cobblepot frowned. "They didn't take anything except your gun?" he asked. "That seems very convenient, Harvey."

"It's the truth, Os," Dent told him.

Cobblepot nodded, then asked, "So when you got home to a totally ransacked house and found your gun missing, you thought it would be a better idea to fuck your girlfriend than to call the police?"

Dent blushed even harder and looked over towards the two-way mirror. Then he looked back at Cobblepot and swallowed. "It wasn't my idea," he said, knowing he sounded like a total idiot. Then he let out a deep, agitated huff of breath. "Look," he said, holding out his hands towards Cobblepot pleadingly, "you have to tell them to let me go. You know I didn't do it, Os, I… I just don't do that kind of thing!"

"I didn't used to think you did, Harvey," said Cobblepot, getting up from his seat and moving towards the door. "I thought you were a good person. I _believed_ in Harvey Dent." Cobblepot frowned at him, and Dent hung his head, ashamed at the slogan. It had been used against him so many times, he was thinking of changing it and getting every poster that stated it torn down from every office wall, billboard, and building where it hung. His pleading blue eyes returned to Cobblepot's face once more, his expression that of a man knowing his own end was near.

"Os," he pleaded.

Cobblepot stared at him for a long moment, his expression softening slightly, and then he shook his head. "I'm sorry, Harvey," he said, his voice a bit less cold than before. He put his hand to the door handle, waited for the buzz, and then let himself out.

Dent stared at the blank door for a long time, then folded his arms on the table and buried his face in the crook of his elbow. Then, unable to hold it back any longer, Harvey Dent, the fearless District Attorney of Gotham who had single-handedly put hundreds of criminals behind bars, broke down and cried.


	66. Chapter SixtyFive

The Lamborghini pulled smoothly up the drive of Wayne Manor, coming to a quiet halt in front of the doors. Alfred got out first, then moved around to open Wayne's door, letting the other man out of the car as well. Wayne stretched his legs, taking a deep breath, and squinted up at the dark sky. It had been threatening to rain all day, but thus far all it had done was rumble ominously. Alfred had not even needed to bring an umbrella to the funeral. Wayne glanced over at Alfred, who was still looking somewhat sombre, and then looked away, closing his car door.

Wayne moved around the car, starting up the stairs of Wayne Manor, and got out his key to open the door for himself and Alfred, when he noticed that the door was already unlocked. He paused, confused, and glanced back at Alfred, who raised his eyebrows, shrugging. Wayne turned back to the door, twisting the handle, and cautiously opened it, looking inside. In the front hall stood a single individual, a woman. Her back was to Wayne. He stepped inside the house, letting Alfred in after him, and stared at her for a long moment, tucking his hands in his pockets. Then he asked, "Rachel?"

Rachel turned and looked at Wayne. Wayne stared at Rachel. Alfred looked between them, then raised his eyebrows. "I… have things that need to be attended to in other parts of the house, Master Wayne," he said, backing away slowly. "I'll just… leave you two to whatever it is you need to discuss." He turned away from the two of them, walking quietly away and disappearing through the doorway, leaving the two of them alone in the room.

Rachel took a deep breath, looking Wayne up and down, and unfolded her arms. Wayne cleared his throat, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the two of them were alone, then looked back at Rachel. "What's the matter?" he asked.

Rachel paused, considering what to say. Then she answered, "It's Harvey."

Wayne's eyebrows instantly shot up. "Is he hurting you?" he asked, suddenly defensive. "If he's hurting you, I'll kill him –"

"No, he's not hurting me," Rachel said, shaking her head. She folded an arm across her torso, playing with her necklace with her other hand, staring intently at the ground. She swallowed, trying to decide how to go on. Then she looked up at Wayne again. "Harvey's been arrested," she said. She sighed, looking away. "Again," she added.

Wayne folded his arms, staring at Rachel. "You know," he said, "for a District Attorney, he sure is getting into a lot of trouble with the law. What is it this time, another speeding ticket?"

"Harvey's been arrested for murder, Bruce," Rachel said, looking up at him, her voice curt. She stopped fidgeting with her necklace and folded her arms, looking away. She could not stand to look at Wayne. He was such a good person, and he loved her, and there she was, telling him about what the other man, who she knew he must think of as competition, had done wrong. She took a breath, shaking her head slightly, then looked up at him, locking her blue eyes with his brown ones.

"Gordon and his men just barged in and arrested him while we were…" She paused, unsure of how to word it. "We were sleeping," she said. A light blush rose in her cheeks, but she swallowed, pushing the blush back down. "They arrested him for the murder of two people I'd never even heard of," she told Wayne.

"Do you remember their names?" Wayne asked.

Rachel paused, then shook her head. "No," she said. "I had no idea who they were, I wasn't about to remember their names." She shrugged. "They found his gun and his father's lucky coin at the scene of the crime," she told him. "It was totally damning for Harvey. There was no way he could have wriggled out of it. Somebody framed him, and framed him good."

"Who would want to frame him?" Wayne asked, frowning.

"Are you kidding, Bruce?" Rachel exclaimed, holding out her hands. "Who _wouldn't_ want to? I mean, what with all the people he's locked up, there are _hundreds_ of people who'd want him out of office." She sighed, putting a hand to her forehead. "And if this murder accusation goes through, he'll be out of office for sure," she said quietly. "Not to mention, probably locked up for life… or worse."

"You mean the Death Penalty?" Wayne asked. He shook his head. "They wouldn't kill him, he's… well, he's _Harvey Dent._"

"If he killed two people, it doesn't matter _who_ he is, Bruce!" Rachel exclaimed. She sniffed, wiping away the starts of tears from the corners of her eyes, then looked back up at Wayne. "I know he didn't do it," she told him. "Harvey was with me at the time the murders were committed. There was no way he could have gone down, killed those two people, and then gotten back to his house in time for the police to find him there."

"So why don't you testify in court?" Wayne asked.

Rachel sniffed, shaking her head. "I can't," she said, looking up at him. "The system doesn't work that way. I… I'm a _biased witness_, Bruce. They'll call my testimony _fabricated_ or _tainted_ and scrap it." She swallowed. "I'm going to be representing him, if it does end up going to court, though," she told him, nodding in confirmation. She looked away for a long moment, then took a deep breath. "That's not all, though," she said. She paused again, then looked up at Wayne. "Bruce," she said, "about a week ago… Harvey asked me to marry him."

Wayne felt his stomach drop. His blood ran cold. He swallowed, trying to process the thought. "What?" he asked. He looked away, bewildered, then looked back at Rachel. "What did you say?"

"I said I didn't know," she said. She bit her lip. "I said… I'd think about it." She looked back up at Wayne. "Bruce," she said, "I love you. You know I love you. But we can't be together if you're going to be… Batman." She shook her head. "I need someone who will be there for me, not someone who runs off at all hours of the night to fight crime. What you're doing is honourable, but…" She swallowed, sniffing again. "I can't be married to two men."

Wayne moved towards her, taking her hands in his, and stared at her. "Rachel," he said in a low voice. "If I were to give up Batman, if I were to burn down the Batcave and throw away the mask…"

"But you _can't_, Bruce," Rachel said, shaking her head. "Gotham needs Batman." She paused, then added, "And as little as you'd like to admit it, I think you need Batman, too."

Wayne stared at her for a long moment, then nodded, letting go of her hands. "I see," he said. He wet his lips, looking away at the ground, then looked back at her. "Is that why you're here, Rachel?" he asked. "To tell me that you were going to marry Harvey Dent?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. She took a deep breath, then let it out. "I'm here to tell you that I wish I _wasn't_ going to marry Harvey Dent." She stared up into his face, then reached out a hand and cupped his cheek in her palm. "I love you, Bruce," she said quietly. Then she turned and walked away, disappearing through the front door, leaving Wayne all alone.

. . .

Gordon opened the door of his house and stepped inside, slowly shedding his jacket and hanging it and his hat on the rack by the front door. Sarah moved into the front room, her arms folded, looking at him, the concern for her husband plain on her face. "Jim?" she asked cautiously. "Are you all right?"

Gordon looked up at Sarah, paused a moment, and then smiled sadly at her. "Yeah," he said, nodding. "Yeah, I'm… I'm just fine." He heaved a sigh, glancing over at his police jacket, then looked back at his wife. "Today's just been a rough day," he told her, putting his hands in his pockets. Sarah moved to Gordon and put her arms around him, pulling him into a loving embrace. Gordon put his arms around his wife as well, nuzzling her face, tickling her ear with his bushy moustache.

"I'm sorry your life is so stressful," Sarah said quietly.

"It's all right," Gordon assured her. "As soon as this Crane and Joker nonsense is over, life will go back to normal, I think." He pulled away from the embrace, looking into Sarah's face. "How are the kids?" he asked. "Are they still doing all right? How's Olivia adjusting to her new family?"

At this, Sarah smiled faintly. "The kids are doing just fine, Jim," she assured him. "They're all asleep. Do you want to go and check up on them?"

A soft smile appeared on Gordon's face at this suggestion. "Yeah," he said, letting go of his wife's waist. "Yeah, that would be great." He turned to start towards the children's bedrooms, then paused, looking back at Sarah. "There was a little girl today," he said, his eyes locking with hers. "The one we've been looking for… the Joker's daughter. Somebody brought her in to the station today, but…" He hesitated, looking away, and took a deep breath. Then he looked back at Sarah again. "You know, she looks just like him," he told her.

Sarah crossed her arms, looking a bit confused. "Is something the matter?" she asked. "I mean, is she all right? Nothing happened to her, I hope?"

Gordon stared at her, considering telling her, then smiled and shook his head. "No," he said. "She's fine. Just… thinking about Olivia reminded me of… of her." He let out a heavy breath, then turned and headed towards the children's bedrooms again. Sarah turned away, still a bit concerned, and then headed into the kitchen to heat up something for her husband to eat.

Gordon stood in the doorway of the children's bedroom, looking in at the three of them. He watched Olivia sleep, and for some reason, he found himself thinking that he could not imagine life without her. She was a part of the family now, and somehow, it felt like she always had been. Gordon smiled gently as he looked over the three children, sleeping peacefully in their beds, then quietly closed the door.

If there was one thing he promised himself, it was that he would never let anything happen to his children, or to Sarah. They meant the world to him, and he could not, would not lose them to the insanity that was lurking just outside the door.

. . .

Kaitlyn hovered between consciousness and passing out for the half-hour it took for someone to show up. The entire time, she wondered if anyone _would_. Sure, she'd placed a call to Robert, but maybe he hadn't understood what she was trying to tell him, or maybe he was busy with something else...

Her fears were put to rest when the door to the apartment slammed open, revealing a shadowy shape standing just outside, holding a gun. For a moment, Kaitlyn cringed and prayed that it wasn't the Joker, who'd come back to finish the job (she wasn't stupid; she'd noticed the bloodthirsty expression on the lunatic's face as he'd left and heard what he'd told his little...girlfriend?). Maybe it was even the woman, who'd seemed capable enough of killing but, for whatever reason, had spared Kaitlyn.

Instead, a shocked voice whispered, "Kaitlyn?"

It was Robert. Kaitlyn's eyes teared up and she tried to push herself to a sitting position; she still lay feebly on the ground, clutching her left arm. "Robert..." she choked out, embarrassed that he was seeing her at her worst. It was stupid that she'd been so careless. If she'd have just made the woman drop her weapon, nothing would have happened.

Robert took a quick, cautionary look around the apartment to make sure there wasn't immediate danger, but his concern for Kaitlyn quickly overcame his paranoia. "Jesus, Fuse, what happened?" he said, slipping absentmindedly into his old habit of calling her by her nickname. For once, she didn't seem to mind. Nor did she seem particularly bothered by him picking her up (after stashing his gun back into his belt) and hugging her tightly, until he realized that he was hurting her. He took a moment to silently inspect her arm, wincing in sympathy. "Joker?"

"His girlfriend," she replied curtly, voice laced with pain. "Can I explain later? I feel a bit woozy..." With that, she finally passed out, going limp in Robert's arms. He carefully adjusted her so he could reach his pocket and dialed 911. "Hello?" he said as soon as the other line picked up. Taking the steps at a carefully quick pace, he explained the situation as fast as he could, and hung up, assured by the operator that an ambulance was on its way.

Robert took a last look at the building behind him when he reached the curb, and dialed Jason Bard's private number. He ought to hear about this.

. . .

Dinah rested her head on Oliver's shoulder, absentmindedly stroking and playing with his hair, every so often heaving a sigh. Oliver stared intently at the television screen, the controller of Bard's old SNES gripped tightly in his hands, gritting his teeth as he shot at blocky meteors with the beeping pellet-like missiles that came from his triangular spaceship. Dinah rolled her eyes and groaned, "Ollie, when are you gonna be done with this lame game? You've been playing it for _hours_."

"How long does Bard play it?" Oliver asked, jerking slightly as he shot another square meteor out of the way. He glanced over at Dinah. "I bet he plays it even longer." He looked back at the screen. "It's an addicting game, Dinah," he told her.

"Jason doesn't play that old thing anymore," Dinah said with another dramatic sigh. "If it weren't for you, that thing would be so clogged up with dust not even a vacuum could save it." She raised her eyebrows, tugging lightly on Oliver's ear. "Did archery practice go well today?" she asked, resting her chin on his shoulder and looking up at him.

"Same as always," Oliver answered, shooting down more meteors. "Got all bullseyes. They're thinking of letting me do some kind of professional archery competition."

"What's the prize for winning?" Dinah asked. "Money?"

"I dunno what the prize is, Dinah," Oliver answered, flustered. He groaned as a blocky meteor crashed into his little ship and the game over theme beeped at him. "Ah, damn it," he said, tossing down the controller. He turned and smiled at Dinah. "Oh, well," he said, putting his arm around her. "At least now I can spend some more time with you."

Dinah smiled, cuddling up to Oliver. "Finally," she said. Just then, the sound of a car pulling into the driveway caught their attention, and they looked up. "It's Jason!" Dinah exclaimed, jumping up from the couch. "Quick! You gotta go out the window!"

"What?" Oliver exclaimed. "You've got to be kidding. I've never gone out the window before–!"

"That's 'cause we always kept track of the time and got you outta here before Jason came home," Dinah told him. "We lost track of the time, so you gotta go out the window." She shoved him in the direction of the window on the side of the house, opening it. "Come on, Ollie!" she exclaimed, pointing out of it. "Go out the window!"

"Dinah," Oliver said, pleading.

"Oh, come on, Oliver," Dinah said, "you're a freakin' acrobat. Don't tell me you can't climb out a stupid window!"

"It's embarrassing, okay?" Oliver said.

Dinah stared at him in slight disbelief. "Would you rather be here when my forty-year-old kung-fu-master boyfriend comes home?" she asked. "He'll kick your scrawny archer ass!"

Oliver paused, considering this, and then frowned at Dinah. "When are you gonna tell Bard about us, huh?" he asked.

"Soon," Dinah assured him, grabbing his arm. She pushed him towards the open window, and he climbed out of it. Dinah quickly shut the window behind him as she heard the key turn in the front lock and the front door open. Dinah ran into the front-room, trying to look as unstressed as possible, and smiled at Bard. "Hi, Jason," she said. She smoothed out the front of her sundress. "You're home kinda late."

"Yeah, I got caught up at work," Bard said with a sigh and shrug. He took off his coat, tossing it over the back of the couch, and stopped when he saw the television still on, flashing the Game Over. He looked up at Dinah. "You play a little SNES today, Dinah?" he asked. He was playing her. He knew what the answer was, and he really did not care, but he thought it was kind-of cute to see Dinah squirm.

Dinah's eyebrows shot up, and she opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. "I, uh," she said, lost for words. Then she turned to Bard and nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah," she said, smiling. "Yeah, I was, uh… I was trying to beat your high score."

"Oh," said Bard. "And did you beat it?"

"No," said Dinah. "No, Jason, I could… never beat your score."

"Yeah?" asked Bard, leaning against the back of the couch. "What _is_ my high score, Dinah?"

Dinah stared at him, taking a long, deep breath. "Um," she began to say, when suddenly, the sound of a cell phone ringing cut her off. Bard reached into his pocket, pulling out his cell phone, and frowned when he saw who was calling him.

"Sorry, Dinah," he said, standing from the couch, "it's work, I gotta take this." He flipped open his phone and put it to his ear, turning away from Dinah. Seeing that he was busy, Dinah quickly moved over to the SNES and picked up the controller, fooling with the game. "Yeah, Robert, this is Bard," Bard said, putting his hand on his hip. "You know, I waited up for you guys _way_ longer than I should have. You better have a damn good explanation."

Bard's tone set off Robert's slow temper. "You want a fucking _explanation_?" he said heatedly into the phone. "How about the goddamn stab wound in Kaitlyn's arm?" The sensible part of his mind, not clouded with worry about his partner, reminded him that none of this was Bard's fault. In fact, he hardly had anything to do with their assignment at all; he supervised _all_ of the teams, and theirs was just a drop in the sea. However, that rational part wasn't enough to keep him from lashing out at the only available target.

He looked up sharply, readjusting Kaitlyn once more in his arms, as an ambulance came around the corner. _About time,_ he thought bitterly, checking on his old friend. He'd tried to keep pressure on the deep gash on her arm with his sleeve, but it was wet now and kept slipping...not to mention that he was trying to hold her, a phone, and his sleeve at once. It wasn't working out too well for him.

A team of EMS' suddenly swamped him, taking Kaitlyn gently out of his arms and laying her on a stretcher, which they quickly pushed into the back of the ambulance. A few of them began asking him questions about what had happened, how she'd been hurt, but he waved them off for the moment and focused again on his conversation with Bard. "Just figured I'd let you know one of your operatives got stabbed. I'll let you know about her status, if you even _care_," he spat, shutting the phone with a snap.

His face burned red as he casually flashed his badge a few times to gain entrance into the ambulance. He was being unfair, and he knew it. At the moment, however, he couldn't care less as the ambulance tore off towards Gotham General. He was focused entirely on hoping that Kaitlyn was going to be fine.

Bard frowned when he heard Robert's sharp tone over the line. "Now listen here, Tassle," he started to chastise the young man, but upon hearing the reason for Robert's foul disposition, he instantly let up. Of course Robert would be overly concerned if Kaitlyn was injured; the two were inseperable. Bard swallowed, glancing nervously over at Dinah, then turned away, walking into another room so that she would not hear him talking about something to serious. Things like this upset Dinah's delicate disposition. She hated even the _mention_ of blood, which made it strange that she would be dating Bard in the first place, but he did not question.

"Is she breathing?" Bard asked. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Dinah was not listening in. "Look, Robert, make sure she gets to Gotham General. I'll meet you there, check her in, make sure she's going to be all right. Then you can tell me everything you know." He paused, taking a breath. He knew he would sound like a horrible person, but his job depended on him being this way. "And maybe we'll get her to talk a little," he added. "If this has anything to do with either the Joker or Crane cases, it might… well, it might even be worth it, since she's not dead."

Bard propped a hand on his hip, frowning. "Of course I _care_ that she got stabbed," he retorted, again peeved at the tone Robert was taking with him. "You're lucky I don't demote you for talking to me like that, stressed or no. But I like you, Tassle, so I'm going to let you off this time." He paused for a moment as he heard a click and a fuzzy silence on the other end of the line. "Tassle?" he asked. "Hello?" But Robert had already hung up. "Damn it," Bard growled, hanging up his own cellphone and stashing it back in his pocket.

He moved into the front room, crossing to the front door, and pulled his coat off the coat-rack. Dinah bounced up to him. "Five-thousand-seven-hundred-forty!" she exclaimed. "That's your high score on the, um… the game." She offered him a hopeful smile, trying to look as innocent as possible. Bard looked down at her, sighed, and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

"Sure," he said. He started slipping on his coat, and Dinah moved to help him get it on. "I have to head out for a bit," Bard explained. "One of my employees got hurt on the job."

"Oh," said Dinah, "were they trying to get a story?"

Bard grinned, glad that Dinah was unobtrusive and naïve enough to be actually buying his cover-up story of a newspaper company owner. "Yeah," he said, "something like that." He finished buttoning up his coat, then turned and opened the front door. Then he stopped, looking back at Dinah. "Oh," he added. "Also, tell that boyfriend of yours that he can just use the door next time."

Dinah blushed furiously, still trying to look as innocent as possible. "W-what boyfriend?" she stammered.

Bard raised his eyebrows. "Dinah," he said patiently. "It's not very subtle when dickhead parks his green Camaro in the _driveway._" He gave her a smile, then turned and left, closing the door behind him.

. . .

The Lounge seemed a bit quieter than usual. Jeanette kept to the shadows in the back, wondering if she should just give Os a call on his cell phone so she didn't attract any more attention than necessary; neither she nor Jack were dressed like most of the other Lounge guests that night. Not to mention Jack's scars. She motioned at him to stay in the back when she noticed Maggie at the counter, cleaning it as usual.

She approached the counter, trying to keep surreptitious and unnoticeable. A few of the more sleazy-looking patrons glanced her way, raising their eyebrows and making crude faces, but she ignored them, focusing only on Maggie. She leaned over the counter and muttered, "Maggie, I need to talk to Os. It's really, really important." Only then did Jeanette think to look around for her old friend; he was usually around this time of night. "_Please_ tell me he's in. I've got a bit of a...problem to work out."

That almost sounded like she was asking for help, so she cringed on instinct. She'd just have to push aside her pride (which only now she was starting to acknowledge; some of what Jack had said had more impact than he probably knew).

Maggie looked up from her cleaning, frowning when she heard the almost desperate tone in Jeanette's voice. "Well, Jeanette, dear, Os isn't here," she said, sounding concerned. "He left a little over an hour ago to go check on his friends, Arnold and Grace. He isn't back yet." She bit her lip, her eyes searching Jeanette's face. "But what's the matter? Can I help with anything?" She put a hand on Jeanette's arm. "I can do almost anything Os can do."

"Except asexually reproduce," Napier pointed out, sitting down at the bar. "I'm pretty sure Os is the only person who can do that."

"Will you _shut up?_" Maggie snapped. Napier's eyebrows shot up. He had never heard Maggie talk that way before. "Every time you come in here, it's always the same snarky commentary. You don't seem to notice that you're the only one who thinks you're funny, _Joker!_" Napier looked away, embarrassed and somewhat ashamed, but Maggie was not through with him yet. "This woman is in distress, which I'm almost certain has something to do with _you_, as _usual_," Maggie went on, all but glaring at Napier, "and all you can think about is poking fun at a man who's done nothing but help you." She pursed her lips, taking a breath. "And if you think I'm going to fix you a drink, you've got another thing coming," she added.

Napier swallowed, shocked, took a breath, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, silent, and looked away. He looked up at Tally, who was meticulously cleaning a glass, staring at him. Napier quirked an awkward smile at him. "Hi," he said. Tally just glared at him. Napier paused. "_You_ don't think my jokes are stupid, do you?" he asked. Tally said nothing, continuing to slowly clean the glass, glaring at Napier. A bit unnerved, Napier raised an eyebrow, shrugging, and looked away. "I didn't _think_ so," he mumbled.

Maggie looked back at Jeanette, taking the other woman's hand in her own and looking up into Jeanette's face, raising her eyebrows. "Honey, I am here for you," she told her. "Anything I can possibly do, I will do my best to do it for you. And when Os gets back, I'll tell him what the trouble is and he'll take care of it for you, I promise." She offered Jeanette a kindly smile. "You are one of Os' dearest friends, and so one of mine, too. You've done so much for us over the years… we'd be happy to do anything for you."

She raised her eyebrows, trying to look as inviting as possible. "Can you tell me what the matter is?" she asked.

Jeanette sighed, eyes meeting Maggie's. It was clear she was still distracted by her earlier thoughts. She replied in a detached voice, "Jesus, Maggie, I don't even know _what_ I need any more..." After a moment, she added more seriously, "A place to stay for a while. Lie low. If you catch my drift."

It all sounded so dramatic, she forced out a laugh in an attempt to break the mood; it failed miserably. She took a seat on one of the bar stools, just barely perched on it as if she was ready for the police to come bursting in the door any moment. It wasn't likely they would, of course; the GPD had already proven itself to be completely incompetent. But her eyes kept flicking in that direction anyhow as she said, "I went after a cop, Maggie. A _cop_. God, how stupid can I get?"

A hand flew to her ponytail, and she nervously took out its tie to re-do it. "A cop, for chrissakes," she repeated, shaking her head, the reality of the situation finally hitting her. "And I'm pretty sure she was some sort of special agent. If Gotham even has those. Who the hell knows, this city's been going to shit lately..." She glanced up, finally remembering that Jack was there at all. "Oh, and the woman - the cop - knew who he was. It's only a matter of time before they catch his scent again, and even Gotham's force will have trouble losing a fresh trail."

The thought made her shudder. She'd been chased by the police before; more often than not, in fact, she was within grabbing distance of the long arm of the law. But before this, before Gotham, it had always been manageable. Hell, if she were to be honest with herself, she had taken the police as a joke. They always had _some_ problem - incompetency, corruption, and so on - and Gotham's force seemed to be the worst of them all. Now, though, it was much too gritty and close for comfort.

Maggie put a hand on Jeanette's arm, offering her an understanding nod of her head. "Of course, dear," she said. "You're welcome to stay here any time you'd like. We have the upstairs bedroom, or, if you'd like, we have a little tiny house in the rural corner of Gotham we haven't used in a long while." She reached into the pocket of her frock and pulled out a small key, which she held out for Jeanette to take. "We bought it just in case we ever needed to get away from the Lounge for a bit," she explained, "but you're welcome to use it, if you'd like. I don't think the police will find you there, at least for a _good_ while."

"I'm surprised they found her in the first place," Napier said, raising his eyebrows. "I mean, we left no trace. I have no idea how they could have tracked her."

"I can't imagine how they'd ever find her," Maggie replied, monotone, staring at Napier, unimpressed. "Not that she has frequent, unwelcome visitors that they can follow."

Napier took a breath, frowning slightly. "I cover my tracks," he said, sounding surprised and suddenly defensive.

"I assume you're referring to the Radisson," Maggie said, raising her eyebrows.

Napier shrugged, wetting his lips. "Spontaneous combustion," he mumbled.

Maggie turned back to Jeanette, taking a deep breath. "If you'd like, the two of you can go upstairs until Os gets back," she said, trying to block Napier from the conversation completely. "Then he can show you where the little house is." She glanced over at Napier, then back at Jeanette. "Unless you don't want to be alone with him?" she said in a lower voice. "Which I can understand. _I_ wouldn't want to be, all things considered, and I barely know the man half as well as… I _think_ you do."

At Maggie's offer, Jeanette paused. In a crazy way (and that was just the way to describe it), it _was_ Jack's fault. It was too strange for her to think about seriously, but he'd changed things. She was no longer living the high life, controlling her own future and doing whatever the fuck she pleased. Now she was living in the dirt, running from the cops and other criminals and her own goddamn _father_.

The thought reminded her of Benito, and her scowl deepened. She turned to Jack. "You know, with all this Crane business, I forgot about my father. He's probably pretty angry by now," she mused; at the moment, with everthing else going on, she simply couldn't care less what her father was doing. After all, she hadn't seen him in _days_. Maybe he'd forgotten about their little deal.

The door to the Lounge opened, and Jeanette's luck went to shit.

"Hello, dear."

Jeanette breathed a curse under her breath in rapid Italian and muttered, in English, "Speak of the devil," as her father approached, seeming thoroughly bored by the interior of the Lounge. He tapped his fingers on the counter, silently requesting - no, demanding - a drink. Then he turned a cool, appraising eye on Jeanette.

"I see you haven't been paying much heed to our...deal." He sniffed at the perfectly spotless counter top and eyed Maggie and Jack in turn, paying especially close attention to the latter. "I don't see why I should keep up my end of the bargain if you refuse to acknowledge yours."

Jeanette's blood boiled. Just the fact that her father had shown up had her half-furious, and she was sent over the edge by his attitude. She smirked coldly. "Don't bullshit, Ben, it's never become you," she said, noting that he narrowed his eyes at the nickname. "You don't even know how to use a gun." She shifted her grip on the knife, bringing it into his line of sight. She glanced at the other guests near the bar, then added, "What are you going to do about it? You have _nothing_ to threaten me with."

And suddenly the look in his eye and the snap of his fingers made her knew she had made a mistake. Several of the nearby diners turned slightly in their seats, reaching for guns at their waists. Jeanette had three guns pointed at her in seconds. "Language, Jeanette," her father said, as frustratingly calm as ever. He always put on this show, acting like an old-style Italian mobster. It made Jeanette sick. "I wouldn't be trying my patience if I were you," he continued, smiling mildly, "until I could back up _my_ threats."

He then turned his attention to Jack. "So _you're_ him," Benito said in a bored tone. "You know, Jeanette," he added, continuing to inspect Jack's face as he spoke to his daughter, "I always thought you had better taste in men. A drinker, an addict, a murderer I can all understand...but he's not even _attractive_."

As soon as Benito entered the Lounge, Maggie sensed Jeanette freeze up at his presence. Even Napier seemed more alert than before. She looked over at him, and as soon as she set eyes on him, she could feel a dangerous cold coming off of him in waves. Words were exchanged between Jeanette and the man, and from the conversation, Maggie could tell that the two of them knew each other – perhaps better than Maggie at first thought they did. Then suddenly, there were people everywhere with weapons pointed at Jeanette, and Maggie knew there could only be one explanation for it: the mafia. She should have known. She only wished Os had told her earlier.

Maggie backed up against the back of the bar. She could feel her blood turning to ice, and she did all she could to keep herself from shaking. It was not that she had not seen guns pulled in the Iceberg before, but never had she been faced with something – or someone – this purely intimidating. She glanced over at Tally, who was staring at Benito, impassive. He seemed to be unaffected by the mobster's presence, but Maggie could not make herself feel the same way. She was scared.

Napier locked up as soon as he saw the man enter the Lounge, and he could feel his muscles tense up when the thugs pointed their weapons at Jeanette. If he had been acting on impulse, he would have gotten up from his seat and tried to take them all out, but something told him that staying put would be the smarter move. He looked at Jeanette, his breathing rattling in his chest. There was some strange emotion that was telling him to protect her, to put himself in front of her, to use his own body as her shield.

He looked away from her, afraid that he might act on his impulses if he continued to stare at her. It was so strange… almost as if he valued her life more than his own. And, suddenly, he realised that it was true. Then he heard Benito's snide comment, and all gentle emotions were overwhelmed by masculine pride. He did not know how to react to a cut like that, so his first reaction was to smile, a cold, unamused grin.

"You know, I'd just _love_ to pick your brain over drinks sometime," Napier replied. "Hell, I'd like any excuse to slice your skull open. The drinks would just be an added bonus. Speaking of which…" He turned to Maggie, his put-on air of reckless carelessness overwhelming the terrified barmaid. "Go ahead and pour me a drink, Maggie. Make it something fancy, with an olive or two." He turned back to Benito with a smirk, tapping his fingers on the counter as he waited for his drink, and when it was finally placed in front of him, he did not even acknowledge Maggie before picking it up, taking a sip, and then pulling the skewered olives from the glass and putting one in his mouth, watching Benito the whole time, his expression sarcastic and calculating.

"Say, _Ben_," Napier said, squinting at him slightly, playing off the apparently insulting nickname the man's daughter had used on him, "you wanna know where I got these scars?" He grinned, swallowing the olive and licking his lips, then raised an eyebrow. "I was Carmine Falcone's right-hand man," he said in a lower voice. "He was always replacing us, but I was one of his regulars, if you know what I mean. He kept me around, 'cause I could wring a man's neck like a chicken's." He showed Benito one of his strong forearms, as if to prove his point, then let it fall back to his side and started toying with the lip of his glass.

"Well, one day, I come in, to do my daily to-do as Falcone's muscle, and instead of Falcone, there's this real sexy lady there." He made a motion in the air to indicate a curvaceous woman, and he wolf-whistled, shaking his head with a grin. "And I know she's the mobster's wife, but damn, that woman had curves that wouldn't quit. So I asked her where Falcone was, and…" He chuckled, taking another drink from his glass, and licked his lips. "Well, I wouldn't feel right telling you where it went from there," he said, a slight Chicago lilt playing into his voice as he looked back up at Benito with coy, dark eyes. "But you can say that we both walked away satisfied that day. So satisfied, in fact, that we continued to see each other for a while after that."

He finished his drink, setting the empty glass down on the counter, and grinned at Benito. "Well, one day, Falcone gets wind of this hanky-panky between the two of us. I go to the meet-up spot, expecting to find my buxom beauty, and instead, there's two of Falcone's other thugs, guys I'd worked with, waiting there for me." He shrugged. "They pinned me, Falcone pulls out this switchblade, and he stands over me, and he says, 'You're lucky this is all I'm gonna do to ya. The broad got a new pair of cement shoes.'" He took a moment, looking away, then added, "She always did like shoes."

Then Napier's eyes returned to Benito. "What I'm trying to tell you, Mister Rossini," he said, now playing up the mobster's professional title, "is that I'm on your side. Carmine Falcone and I aren't exactly golfing buddies, if you know what I mean. And Warren White is a scum-eating cocksucker." He offered Benito a wry grin, looking between Jeanette and her father, feeling the euphoria of his fabrication starting to fade off. Now it was starting to become a kind of panic. Now that he had spun this grand story, how was he going to back it up? He reached out, taking hold of Jeanette's ponytail, and said, "Jeanette here hasn't just looking for a pretty face to fuck. She's been doing her job, Mister Rossini."

He grinned at Jeanette, chuckling, then looked back up at Benito. "I mean, we're not intending to give you any grandkids anytime soon," he added. He looked back at Jeanette. "You'll have plenty of time to pick someone whose face you'd rather see in your family portrait after we finish this job."

Jeanette could have smacked Jack for his little speech, if it weren't for the guns aimed at her and the fact that her father was issuing threats. It was _bravado_, pure and simple. Jack was scared, that much was obvious (and how could she fault him? He was the one Benito had threatened to kill), but he'd also been insulted. Men just couldn't take a hit sometimes.

And what was it going to accomplish? Like her father would take the word of someone like Jack. And even if he did believe him, that wouldn't stop the head of the family from having his men blow his head off anyway. What did it matter if Jack and Benito were on the same side? To her father, Jeanette knew everyone was an enemy.

Even sometimes family. She shuddered.

Then suddenly, Benito laughed, releasing none of the tension in the room whatsoever with the bitterly icy chuckles. "I'm not planning on _killing_ you, _Joker_, so you can calm down," he said, twisting the name derisively. "This is just a warning. Jeanette, don't forget our deal again. I don't care what else you've been doing, just finish this job." He finally acknowledged Maggie's presence with a stare. "And I've been meaning to talk to one Oswald Cobblepot...I hear from a little birdie he deals some excellent arms." He turned towards his men and nodded curtly; they each tucked the gun back into their belts. Then Benito looked back at the three at the bar once more. "But I can see he isn't here right now, so I'll simply come back later." With that, he left, followed closely by his three guards.

Jeanette sighed when he left, sinking onto a bar stool once more. "Fuck," she whispered. Not only did it irritate her how much power her father _still_ had over her, she now had another thing to worry about. At this point, she was almost ready to just go to White's casino, guns blazing, and get rid of him, then take out Maroni and call it a day. Let Benito find the rest of the bosses and get rid of them himself; she could just leave Gotham. But something told her that wouldn't be upholding her end up the bargain to him.

She looked tiredly at Maggie. "When he does come back, keep your eyes peeled," she said, though she hardly thought the warning was necessary at this point. "Benny's not the most cheerful guy you'll meet." She pinched the bridge of her nose and held out a hand for the key to the hideaway house; it sounded like a good enough spot. "I think I'll just head upstairs for a while. Catch my breath," she explained with an exhausted smile. "Thanks for everything, Maggie, and I'm sorry you had to deal with...that. Could you grab me when Os gets back?" With that, she headed up the stairs in the back.

. . .

Selina sat on the bed in White's VIP room, her purse sitting beside her, checking her makeup in her little pocket-mirror. She puckered her lips, looking from every angle to make sure her lipstick was flawless, then shut the little pocket-mirror and stuffed it back in her bag. She glanced over towards the door and let out a sigh.

Today had been ridiculously uneventful, aside from the burglary she had pulled off for White a bit earlier. He had told her to go to Harvey Dent's house and ransack it, taking the handgun from the table beside his bed. Selina had had to tell herself that it was for the greater good that she trashed the place; she could not say it was to cover evidence, because Selina Kyle never left any trace of evidence. She had come back to White's casino and handed over the gun to White, and that had been the last she had heard of the matter.

White never told her much of anything, Selina realised. He just kept her around to be a pretty face, arm candy, and she did not mind because White was made of money and would buy her anything she wanted. It was just an added bonus that he was not half-bad in bed. Selina was considering going out on the town and looking for some excitement when the door of the VIP room opened and White and Rosa stepped inside. Rosa was carrying a large shopping-bag in one hand. White took a step forward, throwing out his hands in an enthused gesture. "Good news, baby!" he exclaimed. "We just got a call. The job was a success! They've arrested Dent!"

"Congratulations," Selina said, monotone. She stood up from the bed, smoothing out her outfit, and put a hand on her hip. Then her eyes returned to the bag in Rosa's hands. "And what's that?" she asked, indicating it. "The victims' heads?"

"Nah, that woulda been the Joker's work," White said, ignoring her sarcasm. He turned and took the bag from Rosa, moving over to stand beside Selina next to the bed. "I got ya a little present for helpin' me," White said, pulling something out of the bag and holding it up for Selina to see. It was a black bodysuit, made entirely from polished leather. The pieces of the outfit had been sewn together flawlessly, and the suit smelled brand-new. White laid it out on the bed for Selina to see, then pulled something else from the bag as well and held it up for her to see. Selina took it in her hands and looked at it. It was a piece of head garb, stitched into the likeness of a cat's ears. Selina looked up at White, raising an eyebrow at his enthusiastic grin.

"Whaddya think, huh?" he asked, running a hand down the suit. "Me-_yow_, am I right?"

"What is it, Warren?" Selina asked, unenthused. She was not particularly fond of the outfit, and hated to know what White had in mind when he was purchasing it for her. It had obviously been tailored to fit her body, so there would be no returning it. She looked down at the black bodysuit, then back up at White. If he expected her to wear that in public, he had another thing coming. It looked grotesquely tight.

White shrugged, putting a hand in his pocket and puffing on his cigar. "I thought you always wanted to be a dominatrix, baby," he told her. "So's I got you a suit. Sexy, huh? Selina Kyle – _Catwoman._" He chuckled at the nickname, then turned back to the bag, picking it up again. "Oh, I almost forgot," he said, reaching into the bag and pulling something out. "The most important part of the outfit."

He held in his hand a long, black bullwhip. Selina reached over and took the whip from White's hands, inspecting it with a curious, enthusiastic grin. Now they were getting somewhere. White watched her as she played with the new toy, then took a deep breath, raising his eyebrows. "You, uh, y'know," he said, taking his cigar from his mouth and looking at it. "This suit wasn't cheap."

Instantly, Selina looked up at him, frowning. She curled up the whip and set it on the bed next to the rest of the outfit. "What are you saying, Warren?" she asked.

White took an exaggerated breath, looking down at the suit, and put the cigar back in his mouth. "Well, y'know, I ain't exactly made of money, Selina," he said. "That suit cost me a pretty penny." At this, he looked up at her. "Surely you ain't gonna deny me one little favour in exchange for something this nice?"

"Oh, hell no, Warren," Selina said, putting up a hand. "I'm through with your little favours. You know how many times I've almost gotten _killed_ because of your _little favours_?"

"Baby, I got you a date with that Bruce Wayne suit, didn't I?" White asked, sounding mockingly pleading.

Selina scoffed. "It was cut short," she retorted. "He had another woman there, and then he had to leave because something was going on at his house. He had absolutely no interest in me."

"Aw, sweetcheeks, I'm sure that ain't true," White said, taking his cigar from his mouth and tapping the ashes from the end of it. "I'm sure he was just distracted by whatever was goin' on at his house. I mean, you're hot, doll, but if my house is on fire, I ain't gonna stop for a smooch, if ya know what I mean."

"So what do you want me to do this time, Warren?" Selina asked, sounding almost bored.

White puffed at his cigar for a moment, then answered, "I need the Joker."

"What, _again?!_ Warren," Selina exclaimed, groaning in displeasure. "You know what happened the _last_ time I tried to get him for you. He nearly ate me alive, and then he refused to cooperate with you, no matter what amount you offered to pay him!"

"Yeah, but this time, I really need 'im, Selina," White countered. "This time, I need to _squeeze_ 'im." His expression turned suddenly serious. "I need to take out Cobblepot an' that woman he keeps as a pet," he told her. "To do that, I gotta go through someone who knows him. I've just spooked 'im. That ain't gonna work. That's just scrapin' the surface." He took his cigar from his mouth, blowing out a faint ring of smoke. "I need to take him out."

"So what, you're gonna use the Joker to kill Cobblepot?" Selina asked, sounding incredulous. "He won't do it, Warren. You know he won't. He wouldn't do it last time, there's no way in hell he's gonna do it this time."

"I don't want the Joker to do it," White told her. "I wanna get to that girl he's fuckin'. The Italian broad. I need to use the Joker to get to her, then I'm gonna use her to take out Cobblepot. You see?"

Selina folded her arms, staring at White, then looked down at the outfit on the bed. Then she looked back up at White. "Fine," she said. "I'll do it." She considered for a moment, then added, "But I get to wear the cat suit."

White grinned, sleazy as ever. "For you, baby," he said, putting the cigar back in his mouth, "anything."


	67. Chapter SixtySix

Jenna didn't know if she ought to be irked with Noah. After all, she'd been acting completely bubbly, even after her disastrous date with Bruce Wayne (and she'd certainly told her brother that story; it had nearly made him want to break off the contract entirely). Still, she figured, he was busy enough trying to merge the two companies without much help from Lucius Fox, Wayne's old right-hand man whose sister had apparently just died.

Regardless of all this, though, Jenna was still bouncing around the house like a bunny the entire day, and it wasn't because of the date. No, she was still internally steaming about that, just waiting for a chance to get her paws around that Selina Kyle's slutty neck. Jenna would like nothing better than to catch Kyle doing something illegal some night; she'd cart the woman in herself, with a triumphant smile all the way. But even some slutty bitch who had tried (and maybe succeeded) to steal Jenna's date couldn't keep her down.

She'd talked to the _Batman_. In fact, she'd saved the Batman's _life_. And damn, did he have a sexy voice.

"BEN!" she yelled into a seemingly empty house. Noah had locked himself in his den, muttering something about business and maybe a flippant "see you for dinner" (he hadn't, of course, come to dinner at all; Jenna wasn't sure when he'd last eaten). Their manservant was nowhere to be found, either. Jenna sighed and went into her mother and father's old shared study, a room with oak panels and a decidedly run-down air to it. It was her least room in the house, in some ways, but it was also the most useful. She ran her finger along the bookshelf full of old, musty books and finally slid out the oldest and mustiest of them all.

Behind where it had sat was a switch on the mall, which she flicked. A smooth creak behind her made her turn, and one of the wall panels swung away to reveal a spiral staircase upward. It was all a bit Scooby-Doo-Mystery-Hunter-esque, but it was Ben who had come up with the idea, and he'd done enough for the twins throughout their years that Jenna had caved way too quickly.

Jenna was up the staircase and through another set of oak double-doors in a flash and, sure enough, inside the room past the doors was Ben, leaned over her gloves and mask with an intensely interested expression on his face. He heard the footsteps behind him and straightened up as Jenna approached, a curious smile on her face. "What's up?" she asked, pulling her hair back into a ponytail and reaching for the goggles.

Ben swatted her hand away harshly, and she looked immediately offended. The butler smiled apologetically, but pointed at the goggles. "I'm experimenting a bit with them," he explained, "and I'm afraid you can't touch them for another half hour or so."

Jenna instantly pouted. "Why not?"

Ben looked up at a screen, where numbers pulsed in some program labeled "Electromagnetivity Test 28". "I'm putting electric charges through them, to see if I can intensify the magnetic effect of the gloves," he said. "It's been working so far. But you were looking for me...?"

"Nah," Jenna said, clearly still distracted by the gloves. She put out a hand towards one of the electrodes on either side of the gloves, and she felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. "I was just bored out of my mind. And you're always up to something fun. Case in point." She took her hand away and returned Ben's smile. "I was actually hoping I could take those babies out again tonight."

Ben's smile flipped to a frown instantly. "I don't think...that would be a very good idea," he said hesitantly. Jenna's eyebrows shot up. Ben had lived with her and Noah since their birth; he'd learned to take their every word as law. It must have taken quite a lot for him to speak up. She wondered just how powerful those charges were making the gloves...

But what was there to worry about? If things got too bad, she could always just run. And there was Batman there to protect her, after all. Assuming anything happened tonight...which, in Gotham, it usually did. "Whatever," she finally replied flippantly. "It'll be fine. Just tell me when you're done with the shock stuff, alright?" Ben nodded, then met her eyes with a worried expression.

"Jenna, it may not be my place to ask, but..." He sighed. "Do you have _any_ idea what your brother is doing with Wayne Enterprises' R&D department?"

Jenna's eyebrows knotted together. She remembered Noah mentioning something about sifting through the department's old files, but she also recalled him acting most excited about that _specific_ department, even before the merger began. "I have no idea, Ben," she replied as she went back down the stairs. She paused at the doorway, worry furrowing her brow. "But I've got a bad feeling about it."

. . .

Jeanette locked the door behind her when she entered the upstairs room, and a cold weight settled in her stomach. There were two closed doors along one wall. The first opened to reveal a dark closet, packed with questionable boxes that made Jeanette smile. The second opened into a tiny bathroom. She locked the door to this room, too, and thanked Os for his paranoia as she looked into the mirror above the sink.

There were bags beginning to form under her tired eyes. She pinched the skin, then put a hand on her stomach. She'd felt sick that morning. Faintly, but she was sure she'd felt it. It probably meant nothing; nerves, maybe, or too much stress. But she couldn't help but think of Kitty, and _her_ morning sickness.

Jeanette shakily turned on the faucet and set the knife she still gripped on the counter. The water ran red for a moment as she washed the blood off of her hands, then her gaze met her reflection. It was shocking. Her hair was messy, her eyes a nice shade of bloodshot pink, her usually immaculate makeup almost completely gone. A line of bruises was beginning to become visible along her upper arms when she pushed her sleeve up. Worse yet was the look in her eyes; she looked panicked. Hunted.

Insane.

Almost before she knew what she was doing, she had the knife in her hand and was slamming it into the mirror that held that awful image. The first blow only cracked it, but the second time the glass shattered. A few of the shards struck her face and arms, opening cuts that stung. She didn't notice, instead sinking to the floor in tears.

She was turning into something she'd never wanted to become: a criminal, one of those mud-crawling psychos that made their livings off of brutal murders and beatings. And she was even having to run for her life and hide from people she'd once considered petty annoyances. The police, her father...she was even starting to worry about the other criminals in this city.

And more than that, there was another problem that she refused to name, because it would cause a dozen other complications to crop up if she did. She held her stomach with both hands and sobbed.

. . .

The phone in the apartment rang again, and Thomas gave it about as much notice as he had the last fourteen times. After all, the Times could only leave so many messages before they'd get fed up.

This one was the same as the last. "Thomas, I don't know what the hell you think you're doing, but we need you in at the office _now_! There are a hundred thousand things you could be writing about! Have you watched the news today? Murders have skyrocketed! There are two fresh ones, just reported, and I...DAMN IT! There was an attack on a cop, the info just came in; people're saying it was the Joker himself. We need you..."

_Beep!_

Thomas glanced up at the new sound. A low whirring was coming from his answering machine, so he stood up, limbs creaking with disuse, and crossed the living room to the kitchen. He glanced at the machine before pressing playback.

"There is no longer time available for messages. Please delete and try again."

Thomas sighed, running his fingers through his hair and checking the room again. He had his registered pistol sitting on the arm of his easy chair, the door was locked, the shutters were closed...but all he could think about was Crane. That man was _insane_; he was going to _kill_ him. If he didn't let people know about that AA meeting and get in touch with the Joker, that was.

And how the hell was he supposed to do either? He'd gone to one goddamn meeting. He barely knew the leader's name (G, G, something with a G). Not to mention that he'd only spoken to the Joker once, and he was sure a message from Crane wouldn't go over well. He buried his face in his hands, feeling the scratchy stubble again on his face.

It was interesting that the Times editors and his boss hadn't heard about his arrest. After all, they knew about everything _else_ that happened in this damn city. He guessed that the murders his boss had just mentioned on the last message, along with the cop shooting or whatever it was, had taken Gotham's entire attention. It was a relief, in a way. Thomas wasn't at all sure whether he was supposed to go back to the station or _what_, but he at least knew that people wouldn't be talking about him for a while.

He went back to his easy chair and cradled the gun in his hands again. He'd been shaking for the last few hours since his escape. Again, he looked toward the door, just waiting for someone to come bursting through the door to blow his brains out or cut him up into little pieces...another shudder ran down his spine.

. . .

It seemed a little strange, to Napier, that Benito Rossini would only seek out Jeanette to give her a warning, and not to cause any trouble. However, he supposed the element of intimidation was one of the most effective weapons any aspiring kingpin had in his metaphorical arsenal. He was still a little shaken about the near-death experience, and just beginning to pat himself on the back for his bit of quick thinking, with the scars story – although he could not really tell whether or not Benito believed him, though he did know who Napier was, which was a start, at least – when Jeanette started talking to Maggie again. She seemed tired, or sad, or something. He could not quite tell, and it worried him a bit.

Napier watched as Jeanette took the key to the hideaway house and headed upstairs. He considered going after her, then stopped himself. Maggie's earlier words had hit home, in some small way. Maybe Jeanette needed some alone time, away from him. He supposed that his presence could get tiring, and besides, he did not think there was anything upstairs that would try to attack Jeanette. Then something began nagging at the back of his mind. She could take care of herself perfectly well, he told himself. Why was he being so protective of her all of a sudden? It was a strange feeling, almost… _territorial._

Pushing the thought from his mind, Napier turned back to Maggie and took a breath, nudging the empty martini glass towards her across the counter. "I'll have another one of those, if you don't mind," he told her.

Maggie stared at him, then took the martini glass off the counter and replaced it with a tumbler, which she filled with water and pushed towards Napier. He looked at the tumbler, then back up at Maggie, who was staring at him, unimpressed. "I _do_ mind," she said flatly. She pushed the glass towards him again. "Drink up," she told him.

Napier took the glass, glaring at Maggie, and downed about half of the water before setting the tumbler back down on the counter. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then looked up at Maggie. "That's some good stuff," he said bitterly.

"Glad you approve," Maggie replied.

Napier drummed his fingers on the counter, staring at the clock, and sighed. Then he turned his attention back to Maggie. "Do you think she's going to be all right?" he asked. He paused, picking up his tumbler, and swirled the water around in the glass for a bit. "Jeanette, I mean," he specified, a little quieter.

Maggie looked up at him, seeming a little surprised by his question. "I…" She tried to think of what to say, then finally decided on the truth. "I honestly don't know," she told him, shrugging. "She's been through a lot, you know. And she's got a lot more going on than you know." She picked up a glass and her cloth, starting to clean the glass. "Jeanette is a complex person," she told Napier.

"Oh, don't I know it," Napier replied, lifting his eyebrows. "I mean, have you ever tried to carry out a conversation with her? She's like ice."

"I would have thought you, of all people, had figured out how to break that ice," Maggie told him. "The two of you seem to be a lot closer than you'd like to admit."

Napier paused, frowning at her. "I have a wife," he reminded her flatly.

Maggie shrugged. "You're only human," she said candidly. "All humans have needs. Everyone wants to feel loved. Everyone wants to know someone cares for them."

"I have a wife," Napier repeated, a bit louder. "The relationship between Jeanette and myself is strictly business. We have a deep-set respect for one another, and even though we've had multiple fallings-out, we continue to work together because we're productively compatible." He picked up his glass and took a sip, then set it back down and added, "I have no interest in anything below the neck."

Maggie almost laughed, but decided that it would have been a really bad move. Napier was unpredictable, and if he was convinced that he was a stellar citizen and a trophy husband, Maggie was not going to burst his ridiculous bubble. "Well, that's neither here nor there," she said with a sigh, setting down her cloth and the now-clean martini glass. "Either way, I think there might be something going on with Jeanette that you might not be aware of."

Napier's frown deepened. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked.

Maggie looked up at him and shrugged. "How am _I_ supposed to know?" she asked. "I'm only Jeanette's friend by association. We're not exactly…" she paused, letting the effect sink in, "…intimate."

Napier was silent for a long moment, then finished his drink and got up from his bar stool, heading for the doors. Maggie looked surprised, following him as far as the end of the bar. "Where are you going?" she asked, slight concern in her voice.

Napier turned back to her, glaring at her. "Somewhere that they won't patronize me," he answered. "And somewhere that they'll actually serve me." And with that, he pushed open the doors of the Lounge and was gone.

. . .

Crane checked his watch and sighed, glancing back towards the door to the bedroom. He could go back in and give Kitty and her daughter a hard time again, but that was a treat that was starting to wear thin. He would give them a bit of time to get themselves together before he struck again. People were at their most vulnerable when the wounds they had received were just beginning to heal. That was when another, deeper cut would be most effective – and most painful.

It was in Crane's profession to know these things, and he had perfected this procedure by repetitive practice, not only against the inmates of Arkham Asylum, but also against many a superior. Nothing gave Crane more pleasure than to see the expression of helpless, embarrassed agony on the face of some well-respected doctor or psychologist who had tried to face off with him in a battle of wits and medical theory.

Crane pulled out Gerald's cell phone and flipped it open, looking through the contacts again, and stopped when he came across Thomas' name. He stared at the name in the list for a long moment, then shut the phone, putting it back in his pocket. He stared ahead for a long, contemplative moment, then pulled out the phone again and opened it, going back to Thomas' name and hitting the Send button. Crane put the phone to his ear, waiting as it dialled the man's cell number, and considered what he was going to say.

If he was going to do something drastic, he wanted to make sure he got the Joker's attention.

Crane pursed his lips when he heard the melancholy sound of Hale's voice on the other end of the line, telling him in an unenthused monotone that he had reached his personal voice mail and to leave a message. Crane took a breath, then breathed into the phone, "Mister Hale, this is Doctor Crane. I know it's been only a short while since we last spoke, but I'd like to ask a favour of you, to… prove that we are truly _on the same side._"

A cruel smirk curved up the corners of Crane's mouth. "Don't worry, I'm not going to ask you to do anything potentially life-threatening," he said, sounding coldly amused. "It's just a small favour. And who knows, maybe you'll even get a bonus for it." Crane glanced over his shoulder, making sure he was not being listened in on. It did not make much difference, really, but he was still paranoid that someone might blow his scheme before it reached full bloom. He turned back to his phone conversation, wetting his lips, and said, "I want you to write another article on the Joker. And if you can, I'd like you to make sure it gets front-page coverage in the Gotham Times."

He looked up, staring at the crease between the top of the wall and the ceiling. The place, though small and somewhat dreary, was still surprisingly well-kept, Crane thought. There was not a single cobweb to be seen. "Put a full-colour picture of the Joker at the top of your article, to make sure everyone knows exactly who it is you're writing about," Crane instructed. "However, instead of another piece of glorified paraphernalia, I want you to write an article exposing the Joker for who he truly is: a drunkard and a coward, whose only true claim to fame is a few poorly-executed murders and his taste for the theatrical. Make sure you play up that he feels he is more intimidating when he's wearing _makeup_."

Crane paused, thinking about his request, wondering if he had forgotten any details. "If you can think of anything else," he added, deciding to leave the rest up to Thomas, "all the better. Now, if wish to prove to me that we are truly both still on the same side, I expect to see this article on the front page of tomorrow's edition of the Gotham Times." His cruel smirk widened. "Either way, I'll be seeing you at tomorrow's AA meeting," he said. Then he closed the phone, hanging up on Hale, and heaved a satisfied breath.

"Clown Prince of Crime," he scoffed under his breath.

. . .

Napier sat down at the bar, frowning, closing his eyes momentarily to try to block out the throbbing music and seizure-inducing lights that illuminated White's sleazy casino. He folded his arms on the bar, leaning forward to see if he could glimpse the hefty barmaid in her usual duties. He was not disappointed; even through the hazy atmosphere of the bar, he could make out Rosa's robust form at the other end of the bar. He wet his lips, waiting until she was finished fixing up the drink of the patron she was currently serving, and then indicated for her to come to his side of the bar.

Rose moved over to Napier, staring at him with a mix of suspicion and dislike. He offered her a curt, false smile that soon faded from his face. Then he took a breath. "Look," he said, holding out his hands to her in an offer of truce. "I don't want trouble. I just want a drink or two. Today's been…" He sighed, putting a hand to his head. "Today's been one hell of a day," he told her. "First there was the police station, and my daughter was taken, and then there was my makeshift surgery attempt, and then some bad drugs… and then the cops came…"

"The drugs were not bad," Rosa rasped, staring at him, unimpressed. "My husband does not sell bad drugs. You probably just used them wrong."

Napier looked up at her for a long moment, then let out a huff of breath. "Oh, yeah," he mumbled. "I forgot you were married to Doctor Mexican." He scrubbed his face in his hands, then let out a long heave of breath. "Listen, I'm not looking for a fight… Rosa," he said, trying to be at least slightly cordial. "I just want to get a few drinks in me and forget about this whole thing, if only for a little bit." He pinched the bridge of his nose in his fingers, clenching his teeth. "Please," he added in an undertone.

Rosa pursed her lips, then bent under the bar and pulled out a tumbler, which she set in front of Napier, and then picked up a bottle of vodka, grabbed some ice from a small cooler, dumped them in the glass, and poured the glass full of vodka. Napier took the glass thankfully and downed it in one quick motion. He let out a long sigh of relief as he set the glass back down on the bar top. Rosa stared at him, one hand on her voluminous hip, and as soon as he had finished his first glass, she filled the tumbler up again.

"Thanks," Napier said, breathless, and started to down the second glass. Just then, he saw out of his peripheral vision someone sit down beside him at the bar, and suddenly, there was a woman's hand high on his thigh. He choked on his drink, splashing a bit of it on his cheek before setting it down and trying to catch his breath. Then he looked over at who had decided to introduce themselves in so sudden a manner. He frowned when he saw that it was Selina Kyle. She smiled seductively at him and reached out, wiping the drop of vodka from his cheek and putting it in her mouth.

"Mm," she said, "Goose. You've got good taste." She turned to Rosa, indicating Napier's empty tumbler. "Get the man another glass of Goose," she said. "I made him spill this one."

Napier frowned at her, setting the glass down on the counter in front of him. "What the hell do you want from me _this_ time?" he asked, wetting his lips and swallowing. "We didn't exactly part on such good terms last time. I don't take kindly to being used."

Selina turned to him, looking a little surprised, as Rosa filled up his tumbler. Selina pushed the drink towards him. "Drink up," she instructed him.

Napier pushed the drink away. "No, thanks," he said. "I'm not that pathetic, just yet." He turned to face her, his frown dark. "You never answered my question," he told her. "What do you want?"

Selina sighed, smoothing out her dress, then looked up at him, her lips pursed. "You cut right to the chase, don't you, Joe?" she asked.

"It's a talent," replied Napier coldly.

Selina stared at the glass of vodka for a moment, then looked up at Napier again. "I'm leaving Warren," she told him. "I just can't take any more of his bullshit. He was using me to get what he wanted, and I didn't like it. So I'm leaving him." She picked up his tumbler and took a delicate sip, then set it back down. "Oh," she said, squinting slightly, "that's strong."

"That's it?" Napier asked. "You just up and leave him? No repercussions, no nothing?"

"Oh, he doesn't know I'm leaving him yet," Selina replied smoothly. "I'm going to tell him when the time is right." Then she put her hand back on his thigh. "But to tell you the truth, I just couldn't stop thinking about you after last time, when we… _almost_ had some quality time together."

"Yeah," Napier agreed, unimpressed, picking up his drink. "That mickey you slipped me might have had something to do with why we didn't actually get around to it." He downed the drink, uncomfortably aware of Selina's eyes on him. He set the glass back down on the counter, and instantly Selina turned to Rosa, indicating for her to fill the glass again, but Napier held up a hand, stopping her. He was already feeling a bit tipsy, and if he were to have any more while Selina Kyle was around, he did not know what she would try to pull, but it could not be good.

Selina looked disappointed, but tried not to show it. "You think so lowly of me," she said, her pouty expression almost overdone.

"Yeah," Napier agreed, not even trying to be cordial. "Anyone who fucks Warren White is pretty low in my books."

Selina frowned. Her flattery and sob stories were getting her nowhere with Napier, but she was not about to give up. He presented a good challenge. Perhaps there was another tactic she could use. If she could just get another few drinks in his system, he would be hers. The only problem was, he was getting smart to her game. As long as the ball was in his court, he would not fall prey to her trap. She raised her eyebrows, suddenly remembering the tactic that White had used that had worked like magic against Napier's super-competitive nature.

Selina let out a sigh, turning away from Napier, and shrugged. "Fine," she said. "You're obviously not interested in me, Joe." She traced a finger around the edge of Napier's glass, then turned to Rosa. "I'll have a glass of _vodka_, if you'd please, Rosa," she said, emphasizing the name of the drink. Then she gave Rosa a subtle nod, hoping Napier would not notice. Rosa stared at her for a moment, then reached under the counter and pulled out a tumbler and a glass bottle of water. Selina watched as Rosa filled up the glass and pushed it towards her, then picked it up and looked at Napier.

"We would never be compatible anyways," she told him. She took a sip of her drink, pretending to squint, and set it down again. "I can't stand a man who can't hold his liquor." Napier instantly stiffened at this. He looked over at Selina, who took another sip of her drink, then glanced at his empty glass. "What?" she asked. "You said it, not me."

"I didn't say that," Napier argued.

Selina shrugged, turning away from him again. Napier frowned at her, then turned back to Rosa, indicating his tumbler. "Just one more, I think," he said, and turned back to look at Selina as Rosa filled his glass. He picked up the glass and downed half of it in a single hit. He wet his lips, staring at Selina, then finished the drink, setting the empty glass down on the counter. Selina finished her drink and indicated her glass to Rosa, who filled it with faux vodka again. Napier's frown deepened, and he pushed his glass towards Rosa, who filled his tumbler with Goose. He picked up the glass, watching Selina, and downed it.

Selina shrugged, looking unimpressed, and finished her own drink. "You know," she said with a sigh, "I've seen Warren's dick hundreds of times, but I've never seen yours." She looked over at him, setting her empty glass on the counter, giving him a head-to-toe inspection. "I bet you got a small dick, huh, Joe? Guys with big egos usually have small dicks."

"I don't have a big ego," Napier retorted, frowning. "And I don't have a small dick."

Selina scoffed. "You don't have a big ego? Please." She looked over at his empty glass. "How many of those have you had?" she asked.

Napier stared at his tumbler for a long moment, his hands flat on the bar top as he tried to remember how many glasses he had had. He squinted his eyes, racking his fuzzy brain, but finally had to shake his head. "Fuck," he breathed. "Don't remember."

Selina nodded and turned to Rosa. "One more, I think," she said, indicating Napier's tumbler. Rosa did as she was instructed, filling the tumbler again, and Selina watched with morbid fascination as Napier downed it, like the others. Then she leaned forward, putting her hands on his strong chest, and neared her face to his, smelling the strong reek of vodka on his breath as he chuckled. "Now," she said in a low voice, "you wanna prove to me that you don't have a small dick?"

Napier grinned. "You bet," he said. He reached down to his belt-buckle, starting to undo his slacks, but Selina put out a hand, stopping him. He looked up at her, hazily confused, and she smiled at him.

"Let's make it a _private_ show," she said. She glanced over her shoulder, then turned back to him with a mischievous smile. "And I have something I'm just _dying_ to try out," she added.

Napier paused, then grinned again. "Something kinky?" he asked.

Selina chuckled. "Oh," she said, "you have no idea."

. . .

"So tell me," said Selina, leaning over onto Napier, resting on his chest, her cigarette making the air above them hazy. "How did you really get those scars, Joe?" She took a drag of her cigarette, then offered it to Napier, who took it, taking a deep drag before letting the smoke seep gently from his nose.

"You really wanna know, huh?" Napier asked, taking a deep breath. He wet his lips, laying back against the pillow, staring up at the blurry ceiling. "Well," he began, "when I was a young, I lived with my mother and father in this old run-down hovel of a place. You couldn't even call it a house, it was more like a… shack." He took another drag of the cigarette and blew out the smoke in a thin stream, clearing his throat. "We had nothing, really," he said. "We slept on dirty mattresses on the floor, the ceiling leaked, everything that could possibly be wrong with the little house was wrong with it… but still we stayed, because it was all we could afford."

Napier scratched at his eyebrows, swallowing and closing his eyes. "My mother had just one precious possession in the house, and that was this beat-up old baby grand piano," he went on. "No matter how tight money got, she refused to sell that thing. Every day, she would sit at that piano and just play… and she'd play all kinds of music on that piano. She'd play classical music, she'd play… modern stuff." He brought the cigarette back to his lips, taking a drag before handing it back to Selina. He let the smoke seep from his lips as he lay back against the pillows again, watching the ceiling spin above him.

He wet his lips, propping his head up on a folded arm. "Well, my father, he was, uh… he was a drinker. A _bad_… drinker." He glanced over at Selina, making sure she was still listening, before going on. "He would get real mean when he drank. My mother usually got the brunt end of his abuse, but sometimes I would get it, too. I got my fair share of shiners from my old man." He took a breath, inhaling the smoke from Selina's drag. "Well, one night, he came home, and he was in a really foul mood. So instead of going for my mother, or for me… he went for the piano."

Napier bit his lip, frowning. "I hid in the bathroom, but I'll never forget the way my mother screamed and cried, and the sounds of the crashing as he whaled on that sad piano," he said, shaking his head. "The next morning, I came out to see what the damage was." He swallowed, reaching over for the cigarette, and brought it to his lips, taking a deep drag and letting out the smoke in a huff of breath as he handed it back to Selina. "Keys were missing off of the piano, and the slat… thing, on top… Well, he'd cracked that thing right in half, and the two pieces of it were lying on the floor. And one of the legs had been broken, so the poor thing was lopsided."

He made an odd, sympathetic clicking noise in the back of his throat before going on, "It was the saddest thing… even though the piano was broken beyond repair, my mother sat at the piano all day, trying to play something, anything on there. Then, that night, my father came home shit-faced again." He took a deep breath, as if preparing for something catastrophic. "He comes in, and he just stands there, staring at my mother, who's still sitting at what's left of the piano, trying to play… and he looks at me. And he says, 'C'mere, boy.'" His frown deepened. "So I went over," he said. "There was no arguing with my father when he was like that. I went over to the piano, and he came up and stood behind my mother, and he looked at her… and then he looked at the piano… and then he looked at me."

Napier wet his lips. "He looks at me, and he says, 'This thing sounds awful. Why don't you tune this thing for your mother?'" He shook his head, opening his eyes. "Of course it sounded awful," he mumbled. "The damn thing was broken beyond repair. But that didn't stop my old man, oh, no. He sat down at the piano beside my mother, and he tells me to start turning the pegs. Well, my mother can't do anything about it, and I can't do anything about it, so I go over and I start turning the pegs. And each one, I turn it until he's satisfied that it sounds all right when my mother plays it… and then I get to the last string."

He paused, taking a deep, shuddering breath, his frown deep and dark. "I get to the last string," he said, his voice low. "And he tells me to turn it. So I start turning it. Now, I don't really have an ear for music… I mean, I'm not tone-deaf, but I'm no prodigy. I start turning this peg, and I turn it, and turn it… and I can tell that the note is getting sharp, and then it's a totally different note, and then it's two, three, four notes higher than it should be… but he tells me to keep turning that… god… damn… peg." His jaw locked, a vein throbbing in the side of his cheek, and he swallowed, taking short breaths. "And finally, I turn it one last time… and it snaps."

Napier put a hand to his face, feeling the marred skin of his scars, and closed his eyes. "The force of the whiplash of that string sliced my face open," he explained. "My mother screamed and cried for her baby, but my father… he just laughed. And then he said, 'That's what you get, for breaking your mother's piano.'" Napier let his hand drop away from his face, lying by his side, and tried to calm himself, eyes closed, totally silent. Then he opened his eyes and looked over at Selina. "And that's my story," he told her.

Selina's brow furrowed, and she let out an uncomfortable chuckle. "How can you even remember a damn story like that?" she asked. She turned, stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray beside the bed, then moved back, lying on Napier's chest, staring up into his face, her blue eyes searching his dark ones. "I mean, that shit can't be true. It's just too… _weird._"

"Sometimes the truth truly is stranger than fiction," Napier answered, unimpressed with her reaction.

"No way," Selina said. "The big bad Joker got his scars from a _piano wire?_"

Napier shrugged, taking a deep breath, and let out a sigh. "You wanted to know," he said, closing his eyes. "I told you."

Selina paused a moment, then shook her head. "Nah," she said. "I don't believe it. What about your… wife, and your kid? You didn't mention them."

"They came after," Napier replied.

"And what about the other woman?" Selina asked, propping herself up on her elbows. "The Italian woman. I know you and her are an item. Where does she fit into the equation?"

"Jeanette has nothing to do with this," Napier said, rubbing one eye with the palm of his hand. His brain was already feeling fuzzy, and all of Selina's questions were just making it worse. "Listen, doll," Napier said, looking over at Selina, "you're lucky I could spin a story that went in some kind of chronological order. I'm not even sure I could walk a straight line at this point."

"Bull," Selina said, silently congratulating herself. So Jeanette was her name. Selina could not wait to tell Warren. "C'mon, spin me some tragic tale that's a little closer to the truth. Did you kill 'er 'cause she didn't want you taking care of the kid?"

Napier hesitated, then looked up at Selina, all good humour vanished from his face. He took a breath, then wet his lips. "I tell you what," he said, his voice low. "I'll tell you the real story of my scars… but you have to do me a favour first." He raised an eyebrow. "A _special_ favour," he added.

Selina grinned. "Whatever you want, Fido," she purred.

Napier looked away for a moment, then looked back at Selina. "I want you to show me White's dogs," he told her. A grin quirked at the edges of his mouth. "And bring your catsuit."

Selina frowned, confused. "What, do animals make you horny or something?" she asked.

"Nothing excites the sexual drive like a little bit of angry canine testosterone," Napier answered.

Selina paused, then smiled. "Oh," she said. "I see what you're saying."

"Good," Napier said. "Now roll over and tell me to fetch. I'll bring you the stick." He smirked. "I'm a very good dog," he told her, leaning in to whisper in her ear in a low, seductive growl. "Tell me to heel and I'll come."

Selina's eyebrows instantly went up. "You are a naughty dog," she said.

Napier grinned. "Woof," he said.


	68. Chapter SixtySeven

Eddie fidgeted in his seat, every so often checking his watch for the time, picking up his glass of water to take a nervous sip, or brushing invisible cat-hairs off of his clothing. He was early for the date, but it was still killing him to have to wait for Maria to arrive. He had wanted to be the first one there, to make sure he did not arrive late, but he was beginning to regret it. Coming early had only made his nerves that much worse, as he looked around at all the other couples peacefully enjoying their meals. Eddie took another nervous sip of water, drumming his fingers lightly on the table, and then checked his watch again.

Maybe Maria was busy, he told himself. Maybe she got caught up doing something. She had mentioned something, once, about being a writer… maybe she was chasing some kind of story. That would be a logical explanation for where she was, at the moment. Then again, the date was not supposed to start for another few minutes. Eddie folded his hands in his lap, trying not to fidget, but he started tapping his foot irritably. He picked up his glass of water again, taking another sip, and then set it down once more, moving to start rearranging his eating utensils, making sure each one was perfectly straight.

A waiter came by and stood beside his table. "Can I get you anything, sir?" the waiter asked.

Eddie smiled awkwardly at him and held up his nearly-empty glass of water. "Can I get another refill on this, please?" he asked. The waiter nodded and left to get the water pitcher. Eddie watched him leave, then finished off the rest of the water in the glass. Eddie pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open, speedily going through his contacts and all the pictures of Evelyn, trying to distract himself, but finally decided to shut the phone. It was not helping. Eddie looked up as the waiter returned with the pitcher of water and refilled his glass. "Thank you," he said, taking a sip of the water.

"Would you like anything to eat?" the waiter asked.

Eddie shook his head, setting the glass of water back down. "No, thank you," he said. "Not quite yet. I'm expecting company. We'll order when she gets here. Thank you, though." He offered the waiter another awkward smile, and the water nodded and walked away. Eddie's smile faded as he watched him leave.

She was going to stand him up. He just knew it. Eddie had not been on a date since high school, and even then he was almost certain the girl had only dated him out of sheer pity. That had been the basis of the reason why Eddie had gone into drugs in the first place, but he was not going to let self-pity drag him back down again. He sighed. She was too good for him and he knew it, and yet he had been so determined to ask her on a date. She, too, had probably only agreed out of some kind of misplaced compassion. Eddie reached for his glass of water again, then set it back down and sighed.

He would wait until it was time for the date to start. If she was not there by then, he would leave. He did not want to be sitting there, all alone, a laughing-stock, stood up by the girl he had fallen so deeply for. It would be too much for him to bear. He checked the time again, then looked up at a couple sitting at the next table over. They were leaning towards each other, smiling and holding hands. That just made him feel even more miserable than ever. Eddie picked up his napkin and started folding and re-folding it anxiously, and then set it aside again. He looked up at the couple once more, and then looked away.

"Come on, Maria," he whispered.

Maria had never particularly liked eating out. Formal places bothered her. It had been fun, during her bachelor's program in psychology, to simply people-watch at fancy spots. She'd even written a thesis (unnecessary, maybe, but still fun) involving social interaction in public versus private settings. Not that she'd had much to base the latter part of the essay on, but...Regardless, she was more comfortable in a fast-food burger joint than a dressy restaurant like this.

She shook her head, finally spotting Eddie in a far corner of the restaurant. The woman handling reservations looked up when Maria pointed in that direction with a smile. "Found him," she said, somewhat sarcastically. It had taken the host nearly five minutes to find her list of reservations, and another few to look through it for an "Eddie, party of two." Maria couldn't remember if Eddie had ever told her his last name and she'd just forgotten, or if she was truly in the dark about it.

It didn't matter now, either way. She waved off the greeter with a firm "I can get there myself, thanks," and made her way over to the table, feeling altogether ridiculous in a skirt and blouse. Maria Goodhart did not wear _skirts_. Maria Goodhart wore sensible, functional _pants_, but she'd set those aside for tonight for the sake of niceties. She felt somewhat better when she found she wasn't the only one to have dressed up. "Great color," she said, taking a seat before he could try to pull her chair back for her. Something told her Eddie was that type. She indicated his shirt. "Looks nice with your hair."

Maria was determined to be _kind_. Kind and friendly were fine. But there was no use getting into anything she wouldn't be able to maintain; after all, she had to remind herself that she'd just been in her hotel room for nearly three hours checking and re-checking the recent Joker murder locations. She was trying to help solve a murder and catch the psycho who had killed her dog. That came first.

"Oh!" Eddie exclaimed as she sat down across from him, and laughed nervously, smoothing out the front of his jacket and shirt. "Th-thanks." He smiled anxiously across the table at her, and discreetly checked his watch. She was right on time. He need not have worried that she would stand him up, though; Maria was a good person, and even if she had not wanted to go on the date, she would have showed up anyways, even if only to say that she went, and to not hurt his feelings. Eddie fidgeted a bit with his hands in his lap, then looked back up at Maria. "It's so great that you could come," he said, trying to be hospitable. "I was almost afraid you wouldn't, 'cause…" He bit his lip. He was rambling, saying things he did not mean to say, and he was sure that it was doing nothing to improve his standing in Maria's eyes.

Eddie paused for a moment, then picked up his napkin, unfolded it, and smoothed it out in his lap, for lack of a better way to occupy himself. Then, taking a deep breath, he looked up at Maria again. "So, how has your day been?" he asked. He smiled a bit, looking back at his hands in his lap. "I spent all day preparing for this date," he told her. "Evelyn – she's my cat," he added, looking up at her, to make sure she did not think he was seeing another woman on the side. That was a laugh, he thought – him, Eddie Nigma, seeing another woman on the side. He was lucky to be seeing a woman at all, and probably did not even need to take that precaution, but he wanted to make sure Maria knew, just in case.

"Evelyn didn't much like the thought of me seeing another lady. She's pretty much made up her mind that she's the only one for me." He chuckled, the mood of the evening starting to lift a little. Then he looked back up at Maria again. "You probably have pets, so you know what I'm talking about," he said. He shook his head, looking away and still smiling, and then sighed. His green eyes returned to Maria's face, and he said, "Sorry if I'm not the greatest conversationalist." He shrugged. "You know, I haven't been on a date in a while, and…" He stopped, biting his lip. He was rambling, disclosing embarrassing information that Maria did not need, or probably want, to know. "Um… sorry," he mumbled, humiliated.

Eddie cleared his throat, looking up and around for the waiter, and when he saw the waiter, he hesitantly flagged him down. The waiter came to stand beside their table, holding his small ordering-pad. When he saw Maria, Eddie thought he looked a little surprised to see her, but he figured he was just being paranoid. Eddie was still a little surprised, himself, that Maria had turned up, but now that she was here, she gave him a confidence boost. "Can I get you anything?" asked the waiter.

"Yes," Eddie answered, sure of himself, picking up his menu. He stared to scroll through it, frowning a bit and biting his lip, and then looked up at Maria. "Everything here looks good to me," he said with an awkward smile. "Why don't you order, and I'll have what you're having?"

"Haha, sure," Maria replied hesitantly, trying to keep herself calm. It was difficult enough being here when she knew that Crane was _still_ loose on the streets, even when she'd been so sure that Gerald would report his son to the police, but talking about pets...She wasn't quite sure whether she wanted to freak out or just start crying. Her eyes seemed in favor of the latter; they were watering up, and she tried to rub them inconspicuously.

She absolutely did _not_ want to hurt Eddie's feelings, but she couldn't be calm right now. Not when Crane was loose, and so was Napier, and her dog was...She heard herself order some pasta dish or another from the menu, before she burst into tears. Crying in front of people wasn't her favorite thing to do, but right now she just couldn't help herself. "I'm sorry," she told Eddie, flustered. She tried to wipe her eyes, but her cheeks remained tear-streaked. It was a lot easier to start crying than to stop.

"I'm _really_ sorry," she repeated. "It's been a really bad week. Er..._couple_ of weeks." It scared her to think that she couldn't even remember when this whole fiasco had started. It couldn't have been more than a few weeks since she'd first gone into Arkham for her interview with Dr. Crane. Just thinking about it made her breathing become erratic. She tried to calm herself down. "It's not your fault. Really. I don't know if tonight's the best night for dinner, is all..."

So now she felt guilty, terrified, exhausted, depressed, and ready to have a panic attack all at once. Wasn't _this_ the start of a great evening.

"Oh, no," Eddie instantly blurted out as soon as Maria began to cry. "Please… please don't cry, Maria…" For some reason, he _knew_ it was his fault. "I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…" As she began to explain, he started to feel even worse. He wanted to sink into his chair and just disappear. If he had not been so stupid as to invite her out to dinner, when he knew that she did not want to go in the first place, none of this would have happened. He tried to look at the menu, but found that he could not even think about eating when Maria was so obviously upset. He set down his menu, wringing the napkin in his hand mercilessly. He tried to start to speak twice, but failed both times. He looked at the ground, then back up at Maria, and took a deep breath.

"Sh-should we just forget dinner?" he asked, his embarrassing stutter starting to return. "I mean, y'know, should we just… skip eating, and I'll take you home?" He blushed. "I-I mean walk you home. U-unless you have a car, that is. Then I can, uh… you can drive home, and I'll follow you, and…" He blushed even harder, unsure of where he was trying to go by this fit of rambling. "Well, not to find out where you live, but just to… I mean, you're always welcome to come over to my place, so you know where I live, too, so it's not…" He could feel his ears burning. "But I don't mean it in _that_ way, I'm not… but I don't mean that I wouldn't like, _some_ day, to… but not _today_… not that I don't _like_ you, I _do_, but… I _respect_ you, and…"

By now he was sure his face was redder than his hair. He sunk into his chair, wringing the napkin in his hands even more furiously, until finally he felt it tear. He looked down at it in surprise, then set it aside on the table and began wringing his hands, watching Maria, unsure of what to do. "I… I feel like you don't really want me here," he told her candidly. He glanced over his shoulder, hoping the people sitting around them did not think he was the reason she was crying, even though he, himself thought he probably was. The last thing he wanted Maria to do was cry. He hated to see her unhappy, but more than that, he wanted to respect her wishes. He turned back to her, wetting his lips anxiously.

"Should… should I just leave you alone?" he asked.

Maria started to laugh. She wasn't quite sure why. Maybe it was that Eddie was about as far from being the problem as possible, or maybe it was because he was being so awkward. It might've even been the fact that she was stressed beyond belief. Hysterics, she knew, were a common side effect of intense stress. Either way, the laughter was almost welcome, because she could feel some of the tension bleeding out of her muscles as her shoulders shook in convulsive giggles.

She sobered up quickly, though, not wanting to make Eddie feel even worse than he probably already did. Somehow the thought of being alone after a day like today made Maria feel worse. So she shook her head vehemently. "No, sorry," she repeated. Then she paused, and shook her head again. "Wait. That's not what I meant." A grin crept up the edges of her mouth again, and she tried to wipe the tear streaks away from her eyes, thanking whatever higher power was listening that she'd gone without much makeup.

She tried again. "No, you shouldn't leave. I mean, unless you want to." She finished wiping her eyes and sat back again with a big sigh. "Damn, I don't even know what I'm trying to say...Do you want to leave? We could go hang out at my place, or your place, or something..." To her own ears, that sounded juvenile, but Maria didn't really care. She just didn't want to have to go sit in her hotel room, alone, waiting for somebody to knock on her door and turn out to be Crane, standing there with a pistol aimed at her head. Or even worse, her _father_ back to finish the job...

Ignoring those thoughts (which would _definitely_ not lead anywhere good), she stood up and pulled on her jacket, glancing at Eddie. "Sound like a plan?" she asked.

Eddie squirmed in his seat, getting ready to stand from the table and leave. Then he paused, reconsidering. If he were to just leave her while she was crying, she would hate him. Then again, if he were to just sit there and stare at her, not knowing what to do or say, she would hate him just as much. It was a lose-lose situation, just the kind of situation Eddie _knew_ he would encounter. He knew that this date was too good to be true, and here was the proof. Just when Eddie thought he was the worst potential boyfriend ever, Maria started to laugh. Eddie's eyes grew wide as he stared at her. It was the strangest thing, seeing her go from tears to laughter just like that.

"Oh, uh…" Eddie swallowed, trying to think of what to say to her rejection. He had seen that coming, too, he thought. "That's okay." He offered her a tight, sad smile, but then she corrected herself, and it made him feel a little better, though not much. He took a breath, picking up his glass of water and taking a nervous sip, then giving a quick cough as the water went down the wrong pipe. He tried to stop his eyes from watering as he cleared his throat, trying to offer Maria a reassuring, somewhat hopeful smile.

"That sounds good," he said, his voice somewhat hoarse. His smile widened. "Actually, that sounds _great,_" he told her. Eddie took another sip of water, trying to get his voice to return to normality, and took another deep breath, clearing his throat again. He started to get up, then sat back down, not wanting to seem too eager to leave. "I'd love to, uh… to _hang out._" He almost laughed at how awkward he sounded saying the phrase. "I can make you something to eat at your place, if you'd like," he offered. "I make a mean enchilada, if you like Mexican food. And I'm a master chef with the microwave."

He started to get up again. "Shall we… leave?" he asked.

All the way back to the hotel, Maria laughed. It was due, in part, to the fact that laughter seemed to be the only thing able to keep her sane right now. But she had to admit that part of it was Eddie.

He was still such a kid, in many ways. The psychologist in her wondered what could have caused it. Abuse as a child? Neglectful parents? Then she remembered where she'd first met him. Maybe drugs had messed around with his head for so long that he couldn't function in normal society. She stopped at a red light, drumming her fingers on the wheel in intense concentration, then grinned at herself.

Or he could just be socially awkward.

She had to hope that Eddie didn't have anything in mind for when they got back. She honestly _did_ just want to have someone there (staying alone in her dark hotel room was _not_ an inviting idea). She also knew that she was probably leading the poor guy on, but she let herself be selfish and ignore that little fact. She ignored it all the way until she got up to her room and pulled out her room key.

"Sorry if this is all a bit...strange," she said apologetically, sliding the card into the key slot. "My house underwent a little...erm...unexpected renovation a while back." She opened the door with a flourish, heading to the fridge for a bottled water. "Want anything? I don't have any luxuries, but..." She rummaged around the shelves for a moment. "Soda, water...Mmhmm, I think that's it."

The sound of Maria's laughter on the ride to her hotel room was reassuring to Eddie, even if there was something a little unsettling about how she had gone from crying to laughing without any steps in-between. However, Eddie had not been out on a date with a woman in a very long time, so he had no idea how women were supposed to act, especially adults. The last time he had gone on a date had been in his sophomore year of high school, and the girl, who had been on the Brain Bowl team with him, had made sure to make him feel incredibly inadequate the entire night, and ended it by laughing at him when he poised to kiss her. After that, Eddie had been too terrified of failure to even try to go out on a date with another girl.

But, somehow, Maria was different. She was non-judgemental, as far as he could tell, and she was open to trying new things. She was a writer, which Eddie found fascinating, and he was glad that she had decided to drop in on their AA meeting, for whatever reason she had decided to do so. He knew that if she had not given him the courage to ask her out, he would probably have spent the rest of his life with no one but his cat to keep him company. The thought of Evelyn suddenly made him feel guilty. He was sure she had destroyed all of the furniture in his apartment by now in her anxious jealousy of his pretty human date.

When they finally got to the hotel and up to Maria's hotel room, Eddie waited patiently, his hands in his pockets, as Maria opened the door, listening to her apology. He smiled, shaking his head. "No, it's not strange at all," he assured her, holding open the door for her to go inside first. He glanced over his shoulder to see if any curious neighbours were poking their heads out of their rooms to see what the newcomers were up to. Most of him was mortified at the thought that anyone, even people he did not know, would think that he and Maria, who were just getting to know one another, were up to any kind of mischief, but there was a small part of him that wanted them to think that, for some strange reason.

Eddie frowned at the thought as he let himself into the hotel room after Maria, closing the door behind him. The room was nice, and somewhat homey, with all the needed amenities without any excess, useless clutter to distract or detract from the cosy feel of the place. His hands somehow found their way to his pockets again, where they settled awkwardly, his feet turning slightly pigeon-toed at the thought of being alone with a woman he was only remotely friendly with in her home. He listened to her explanation, about her house undergoing renovation, nodding along with the story, though he was really only half-paying-attention to her. When she offered to make him something, he instantly looked up, shuffling into the front room after her and standing gawkily beside the couch, not sure if he should sit down without being invited or if she would think he was being rude by making himself at home.

"Water sounds great," he said, trying to sound more assured of himself than he really was. He glanced over at the couch, moved towards it an inch, paused, then sat down on the edge of it, ready to spring back to his feet at a moment's notice. "I'm pretty parched." He chuckled nervously, leaning his elbows on his knees and starting to twiddle his thumbs. He wet his lips, unsure of what to say, but hating the awkward silence. Finally he asked, "So, you're a writer, huh? W-what kinds of things do you write?" He took a breath. "I like to read books," he added, starting to ramble nervously. "All kinds, like fiction, and nonfiction, and… and fantasy…" He bit his lip, realising just how stupid he sounded, and cursed himself silently.

No wonder he never got any dates. He was an idiot, and he did not know how to quit while he was ahead. Then again, he admitted to himself with a sigh, he was hardly ever ahead to begin with. He looked down at the floor, his ears starting to turn pink with embarrassment.

"I'd like to read some of your books sometime," he added in a humiliated undertone.

Maria grinned, refusing the reference to her work remind her of her current situation. She pulled a water out of the fridge and said, "No, I bet you wouldn't. Most of it's psychobabble nonsense that _no_ one likes to read." She stood, grabbing her own drink and went to the couch, perching herself on the end of it and taking a look around her room. It was about as clean as she'd hoped; a jacket or two was lying around on the floor, and papers were spread out completely over the kitchen table, but otherwise she'd kept clutter to a minimum. It helped knowing that she wasn't at her own house, and that the maids would have to clean up her mess.

Not to mention that she didn't trust them not to go through her things if she left them lying about.

"And the rest," she added, "is completely documentary." She cracked open the bottle cap, looking at the lid for a moment as she decided what would be okay to share with Eddie. "In fact," she said tentatively, "I was working on a compilation of stories a little while ago. Tried to interview Dr. Crane about it...you've heard of him? The Scarecrow, I guess he was being called back in the...fear gas incident." She took a drink, mouth suddenly dry, and forced a wry grin. "I got in to see him right before he escaped from Arkham. Lucky timing, huh?"

She shook her head, not really wanting to stay on the topic. "So what do _you_ do?" she asked. "Besides attend AA meetings, of course." She frowned at herself; that hadn't come off nicely. "Not that...you know, that's a bad thing." She sighed and rubbed her temples. "Sorry. But what _do_ you do?"

"I'd like to read it," Eddie piped up, perhaps sounding a bit too eager. He bit his lip, looking away, hoping Maria would pass him the water bottle, and when she did, he took a careful sip of it, remembering the incident from the restaurant when he had tried to drink water too fast. Then, setting it down in his lap, he looked back at Maria. "I like that kind of stuff," he told her, nodding. "All that mental stuff. My cousin got me into that kind of thing. He's a psychologist, does a lot of in-depth mental stuff. He's the one who sent me the books of riddles." He shrugged. "He said it would help me exercise my brain," he said. "Recover from the abuse I'd put it through."

Eddie laughed uncomfortably, taking another sip of water, and then he handed the bottle back to Maria, looking away. Whenever he talked about his drug-using days, it always seemed like a whole other person he was talking about. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he never saw the junkie anymore, only scrawny, nerdy Eddie, the freckle-faced geek who could never get a date. It was almost as if his days of drug use were only a bizarre dream. He did not _look_ like a drug addict, or _act_ like one, and he never, ever had periods where he even considered a relapse. He frowned slightly, thinking about it, then looked back up when Maria started talking again.

"Oh yeah, I heard about that," Eddie said, nodding. "The Fear Gas Incident. I was out of town at the time, visiting my cousin. He used to live here in Gotham, but he moved to follow his job. He's been thinking about coming back down, or so he tells me." Eddie quirked an eyebrow. "The Scarecrow?" he asked. "I've heard of some weird stuff, but that one takes the cake. What does a scarecrow have to do with fear?" He shrugged, letting out a huff of breath. "I guess it doesn't really _have_ to make sense. I've heard that Dr. Crane is nutty as a fruitcake." He looked back at Maria. "And that _is_ really good timing," he agreed with a nod. "But the fact that he escaped is still a little scary."

Eddie glanced behind him, as if afraid Crane would be standing outside the window, spying in on their conversation, then turned back around when he heard Maria address him. "M-me?" he stuttered, looking over at her. He swallowed, unsure of what to say. "I, uh…" he started, but stopped, his mouth dry. He glanced at the water bottle, wishing she would hand it to him again, but he was not about to ask her, and then his eyes returned to her face. "I'm, uh… I do odd jobs, mostly," he said. He shrugged. "If the science students at the local community college need someone to test on, they call me."

He let out a short, nervous laugh. "I can't even tell you how many times I've been poked, prodded… I've been stung by all kinds of insects… they called me in for help in the human anatomy class, once… they never called me back for that." He blushed at the thought. That had come out wrong. "I mean, it was an art class," he tried to correct himself. "They were studying human anatomy, how to draw it, I mean, and so they called in some models, a-and we were supposed to pose for the students to draw…" He blushed even harder. "I refused to take off my bathrobe," he admitted, looking away. "So the students had to draw me in the robe. They never called me back to model for the class after that."

Eddie wrung his hands in his lap, letting out a kind of sigh. "Not that I blame them," he added in a lower voice.

. . .

As far as Thomas was concerned, he was doing the right thing.

His fingers ran across his keyboard quickly, every once in a while pausing while he re-read his work. This wasn't his best writing, he knew. Every few sentences he'd find a spelling error a fifth-grader could have picked out. But who could really blame him? He was trying to write while his heart was pounding and his head was aching. Plus, the motivation behind this article was a psychotic killer who had essentially threatened death or serious maiming (as Thomas imagined) if he didn't get what he wanted.

Thomas hated this, hated playing into Crane's hands, but what else could he do? If he asked the police for help, they'd start asking questions that he couldn't answer without getting in some big trouble. Anyway, if he tried going back to the station, that psychotic redhead from before would probably lock him up again for doing absolutely _nothing_ wrong.

He gritted his teeth and scanned the article once more before putting it into email form along with an apology to the Times editor for his absence; some bullshit about being too sick to call in might work. If not, what's the worst they could do, not print the article? Thomas shuddered, thinking of those eerie, merciless blue eyes, and hoped desperately that they would. Then he sent off the email.

He leaned back in his desk chair with a sigh, rubbing his eyes. And now he had to wait. Wait for the article to be printed in the evening edition and the Joker to come after him. Or for the editors to reject it, and Crane to arrive outside his door, toting a handgun. Thomas' exhausted mind searched for other options, and only came up with one name, one that he'd only associated with this fiasco once before. Hell, it was worth a shot.

He picked up the phone and dialled Maria's number.

. . .

"Well, that's...interesting enough," Maria replied, honestly trying her hardest not to laugh or even giggle; it was hard, now that she'd started, to stop, but something told her poor Eddie wouldn't take it very well. "As long as it pays the bills, right?" She half-grinned, but her brow furrowed a moment later. "But I thought that sort of thing was ill..."

She was cut off by the phone ringing. She smiled apologetically at Eddie and went to get it. With what had been happening for the last few weeks, it felt like suicide to miss a phone call. She glanced at the number with a frown, not recognizing it, and picked up the headset. "Hello?"

"Hello? Maria?"

She didn't recognize the voice, which set her nerves off immediately. "Hello? Who is this?" She began to wind the phone cord around her finger nervously, glancing back at Eddie.

"Oh, thank god, I thought I'd gotten the wrong number...This is Thomas." Memories flooded back to Maria, and she finally placed his voice. Thomas Hale, the Times writer, who she'd met at the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. He went on. "Hi, I'm so sorry to be calling you, and if I'm interrupting anything, but...I don't know what else to do, and even if this is a long shot..."

Static filled the line as he sighed. "Listen, I sort of realized back at the AA meeting that...well, you remember Wayne's gala? You were there. I actually got some pictures of you with this guy that everyone kept calling Dolohov...but his name wasn't really Dolohov, was it?" He took a breath, audible through the phone. "That was the Joker. Dolohov. He was the Joker. I recognized the scars."

Maria took a deep breath, wondering exactly whether to lie to Hale or not. Honesty won over. "Yes, it was." She paused. It didn't feel like this was all he was asking for. "What did you need?"

Another rush of air, another sigh; this one sounded more frustrated. "I'm...not quite sure. Listen, I've gotten into a bit of trouble with Dr. Crane - that guy that escaped from Arkham a while ago, you know - and the Joker, and I don't know if you're on their side or not, and...well, you just seemed to know quite a bit about them..."

"Let me stop you there, Thomas." Maria's face was set in a scowl. "I'm trying to get _out_ of all that business," she said. "I'm sorry, Thomas. If you need help, call the police. I can't do anything." With that, she hung up the phone, took a deep breath, then went back into the living room with a plastered-on smile. "Sorry about that. Telemarketer."

Eddie shrugged, offering a nervous smile and slight chuckle. "I guess it does," he answered, starting to fiddle with his hands. He pulled them apart and put his hands on either side of him on the couch, hoping Maria would not notice his uncomfortable fidgeting. When the telephone started ringing, Eddie almost jumped, but caught himself just in time. He looked up, surprised, towards where the ringing was coming from, and then his attention returned to Maria as she got up to answer it.

He took a breath, trying to frantically think of things he could talk about with her, but nothing was coming to mind. Now that he had time to think about it, he realized that he was actually a pretty boring person, in all. He did not really do much, as she had pointed out, besides attend AA meetings. He lived a quiet life with Evelyn, and that was good enough for him. There was no end to odd jobs in Gotham, but he lived on a paycheck-to-paycheck basis, and he liked it.

Just then, Eddie caught a snippet of the conversation that was drifting in from the kitchen. He tried to tune it out, not wanting to be rude to Maria, but could not help but hear as she spoke someone's name – Thomas. Eddie felt a tight knot twist in his stomach, and he looked away. Of course Maria would not seriously be considering someone like Eddie to be her boyfriend, not really. She had someone, and this little so-called 'date' was only for Eddie's benefit, to give him a little boost of confidence. Now that he knew the truth, however, it did nothing to boost his self-esteem, only brought him down.

But then he remembered something. Thomas had been the name of the newcomer at the last AA meeting. Maybe the phone call had nothing to do with a relationship of any kind. Maybe Thomas was calling Maria to ask her something about the meetings, or to tell her something… and then it hit him. Gerald had called him to reschedule the meeting. That must be what Thomas was calling Maria to tell her. Eddie let out a sigh of relief, glad that his first assumptions were not correct. Maybe he still had a chance with Maria, after all.

As Maria came back into the room, he tried to look like he had not heard a thing, and he smiled at her. "Oh," he replied, when she told him that it was a telemarketer. "That's okay." He was not going to question why she did not want to tell him that Thomas had told her a new date and time for the meeting, but how she thought was none of his business, not yet, at least. Eddie nervously shifted the water bottle from one hand to the other, then took a sip and handed it back to Maria. Then he checked his watch and let out an exclamation.

"Oh, my gosh," he said, looking up at Maria, "it's past ten! Oh, gosh, I'm really sorry to keep you so late, Maria…" He got up from the couch and moved to Maria, unsure of whether to give her a hug, a peck on the cheek, a handshake, or just a smile. He had not been out on a date in so long, he had forgotten how to do it. He hesitated, then offered her a shy, happy smile. "Thank you so much for the wonderful evening," he said, nodding to her. "I had a great time." He swallowed, glancing towards the door. "So, uh… I guess I'll see you tomorrow," he said. He hesitated another moment, then turned and walked to the door, letting himself out.

Out in the hallway, Eddie took a deep breath, then let it out in a heavy sigh. Then, silently, he let out a laugh of relief. Today had to be one of the best days of his life. Then, suddenly, his thoughts returned to Evelyn, and he pulled his car keys from his pocket, rushing towards the elevator. She would be angry with him for returning so late, but despite that, he would tell her the whole story of his great first date with Maria Goodhart.

She would probably destroy his upholstery to get back at him, but right now, Eddie could not care less.


	69. Chapter SixtyEight

Cobblepot let out a heavy sigh as he pushed open the double-doors of the Iceberg Lounge, letting himself in without his usual flair. His feet dragged slightly when he walked, and his eyes seemed dull. As soon as she heard the doors opening, Maggie looked up, and a smile came to her face when she saw that it was Cobblepot who had entered the Lounge.

"Oh, Os, you're back." Maggie let out a relieved sigh, moving over to the counter to greet him. He leaned forward, giving her an air-kiss on either cheek, then sat down on one of the stools. Maggie pulled out a glass and began cleaning it. Cobblepot glanced over his shoulder, noticing how empty the Lounge seemed, and looked back at Maggie.

"Did I miss something?" he asked.

"Not really," Maggie said. "Tonight's just been really slow. Though Jeanette came by a little earlier with that seedy Joker character." Maggie set the glass down, glancing over towards the staircase, and raised her eyebrows. "Then Jeanette's family came in and ambushed the two…" She glanced over at Cobblepot, an odd, almost anxious expression on her face. "And by family, I mean _family_, like the _mafia_, Godfather-style. Did you know Jeanette had connections to the mafia?"

"Of course," Cobblepot answered, shrugging.

"You… you did?" Maggie asked, surprised.

Cobblepot nodded, nonchalant. "The Rossinis have been vying to take control of this town for decades," he told her. "The Falcones have always had the upper hand, especially after the death of Thomas Wayne, up until their Don was gassed and locked up in Arkham." He started to fiddle with a knick in the wood of the counter, not really paying attention to what he was doing. "Then, just when the Rossinis thought they would finally have the upper hand in Gotham, along comes Warren White, with his money laundering and dog-fighting and crooked casino, and swipes it right out from under them."

Maggie frowned, then picked up her cloth and started to clean the counter, pushing Cobblepot's hand out of the way so that he would stop fooling with the knick in the counter. He looked up at her, slightly amused, and asked, "So where are dear Jeanette and darling Jack now?"

"Jeanette's upstairs, resting," Maggie said, stopping in her cleaning to look up at Cobblepot. "Jack left a few hours ago in a bit of a bad mood."

"Why? What did you say to him?" Cobblepot asked.

Maggie looked surprised. "Nothing," she said. "I refused to serve him a drink, for obvious reasons, and I told him that Jeanette was under a lot of stress, but other than that, I didn't say anything to him." She shrugged, shaking her head. "I have no idea why he left in a huff like that."

"Huh," Cobblepot mused, pulling out his silver cigarette case and taking out a cigarette. "It must have been something Tally said."

"So how were Grace and Arnold?" Maggie asked, leaning forward on the counter slightly.

Cobblepot finished lighting his cigarette and stashed his lighter in his pocket, letting out a thin stream of smoke from between his lips and frowning slightly. "We didn't speak much," he answered, looking over at her and raising his eyebrows. "In fact, they were quite _cold._"

"Oh, dear," Maggie said, leaning back again. "Was it something we did?"

"Well, I think it may have been something dear _Harvey_ did," Cobblepot said, taking a drag of his cigarette. He let the smoke seep slowly from his lips, staring at the smouldering end of the cigarette, then looked back up at Maggie. "You know Harvey had a bit of a tiff with them earlier," he reminded her.

"Yes, I remember that," Maggie said, nodding. "Well, did you try to explain to them that he didn't mean it? I hope they aren't _too_ upset about the matter."

"Well, no, Maggie," Cobblepot said, his voice airy, "I'd say they aren't upset about it in the least." He flicked the ashes from the end of his cigarette into the ashtray on the counter. "In fact, I'd have to say that they were quite _at peace_ with the whole affair." He glanced up at Tally, then his eyes returned to Maggie, who was looking somewhat confused.

"So… did they seem to be all right, when you went to visit them?" she asked, frowning slightly.

"Oh, they were right as rain," Cobblepot said, bringing the cigarette back to his lips. "…Apart from the fact that they were both _stone dead._"

Maggie's hand instantly flew to her mouth, where it stayed for a long time. "Dead?!" she gasped. There was a long moment of shocked silence. Then Maggie removed her hand, and her frown deepened. "You seem so calm and collected about the whole thing," she observed.

Cobblepot let out a cold burst of laughter and put his head in his hands, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray. "Well, Maggie, I have to be," he explained. He looked up at her, a strange expression on his face. "If I don't hold myself together, I'm going to fall apart. And we all know what it looks like when someone falls apart entirely." He sighed, looking down at his crossed arms on the counter, then looked up at Maggie again. "You know," he said, "we should seriously consider leaving Gotham, Maggie. It's just gotten far too dangerous out there." Cobblepot shook his head, taking a deep breath. "Far too dangerous," he repeated in a lower voice.

"Where will we go, Os?" Maggie asked.

Cobblepot glanced at Tally, then shrugged. "We'll figure that one out as we go," he said, nodding at her reassuringly. Then he glanced over towards the staircase. "I certainly hope Jeanette is all right up there," he added quietly.

. . .

Selina slipped quietly out of bed, making sure not to disrupt Napier's sleep, and picked up her underwear, slipping them on, then pulled on her dress. She made her way to the door of the room, glancing over her shoulder to make sure she had not woken Napier, then silently twisted the knob of the door and let herself out, closing the door behind her. As soon as she was outside, she let out a deep breath, leaning against the wall, and pulled out her cell phone, opening it to make a call.

"Don't bother, doll," White said, coming up to stand beside her. "I'm here."

Selina jumped when she heard his voice, looking over at him, then snapped her phone shut and stuffed it back in her purse. "Damn it, Warren," she said in a low voice, "warn me next time you're gonna do that."

White shrugged, puffing on his cigar, then took it from his teeth and looked over at her. "You get him?" he asked.

Selina nodded, folding her arms. "Yeah, I got him," she said, sounding thoroughly unimpressed. She paused a moment, then looked up at White. "You know, he's really creative," she told him, her voice odd. She looked away again, raising her eyebrows. "You wouldn't think someone like that could be so…" She shrugged, not really sure how to describe it. "I don't know," she said in a low voice.

"Creative?" White asked, looking over at her with a frown. "What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?" He raised his eyebrows. "He do some crazy stuff to you in there?" he asked. A wry grin split his face. "Did ya like any of it?" he added. "'Cause if you can remember what he did, then I can do it to you just as well."

"No, that's not it," Selina said, shaking her head. "He just…" She looked over at White. "He makes up stories about his scars," she said. "He just _makes them up_, off the top of his head. Just like that. No premeditation, no nothing." She looked away again, unfolding her arms. "You'd think someone who was crazy, slow, a druggie, a drinker… they wouldn't have that kind of creativity."

White let out an unimpressed grunt, putting his cigar back in his mouth. "Don't tell me you're falling for his beautiful mind," he said, his voice gruff.

Selina scoffed. "Oh _hell_ no," she said, waving him off. "I'm just sayin', is all."

"Huh," White said. "Well, is that all you got outta him? Mediocre sex and some bullshit story?"

"I never said the sex was mediocre," Selina said, raising her eyebrows. "But no, that's not all I got. He said the woman's name… the one you're wanting me to lead you to."

"And?" White asked.

Selina folded her arms again, looking over at him. "It's Jeanette," she said. "But that's not the interesting part. You should have heard the way he said it… like he really cared about her."

White puffed at his cigar for a moment. "What, you think he actually cares for this broad?" he asked, a slight frown creasing his face. He switched the side of his mouth the cigar was in, considering. "So this whole thing might be a little tougher than I thought," he mused.

"Probably more than just a little," Selina said. She took his cigar from his mouth and took a puff of it, herself. "You better stay out of his way for a while, Warren," she said, handing back the cigar. "'Cause if he wakes up and you're there, demanding to see this woman he's taken more than just a shine to by name, he's going to take your fuckin' head off."

"Me-_yow_," said White, sounding a bit taken aback. "Since when have you been the relationship doctor, Selina?"

"I just know these things, okay, Warren?" Selina shot back, perhaps a bit too harsh. She looked away, trying to cool off. Then she said, "He wants me to show him your dogs."

White frowned. "Why?" he asked.

Selina shrugged. "Maybe he was just rambling," she suggested. "He's pretty boozed up. But if he asks to see them again in the morning, should I show them to him?"

White considered her question for a moment, then shrugged, puffing on his cigar. "Sure," he said. "I don't see why not." He turned to leave, then turned back to Selina again. "Oh, by the way," he added, "make sure to drop a few hints tomorrow. See if you can get him to spill. Maybe, like, where the broad's staying or something." He took the cigar from his mouth, indicating Selina with it. "Or even better," he said, "see if you can't have him lead you straight to her."

He winked at Selina, then turned and walked away. Selina frowned, glancing back towards the bedroom, considered going back in, then turned and walked away as well. She could only take so much of White's diabolical plan. Every time she talked to Napier, he became more real. Every time she talked to White, he became more manipulative. Napier was not just a drunk and a druggie that they could use to get what they wanted anymore. Now he was somebody's father, somebody's husband, somebody's lover, somebody's friend, somebody's son… he was _somebody_.

Selina glanced back at the bedroom door, then turned back, opened it, and let herself back inside. Maybe, deep down, there was a small part of her that hoped that _she_ could be somebody, too. But no matter how close she wrapped herself around Napier's sturdy form, she still felt dirty, used, and like a nobody who would never matter to anyone but Warren White and his goons.

She sighed, resting her head against Napier's strong chest, closed her eyes, and finally drifted off to sleep.

. . .

Wayne opened the doors of his windowed-in balcony and stepped inside, and was surprised to find two other people sitting in the chairs. Alfred and Fox looked up at him when he came inside, neither one looking particularly surprised to see him. Wayne put his hands in his pockets, looking between the two. "Did I interrupt something?" he asked.

"We were just discussing your company, Mister Wayne," Fox answered, solemn. He indicated the last free chair. "Please, take a seat."

Wayne moved across the room and took his place in the circle, looking at the other two men. He reached over to the side table, where a pitcher of ice water and a few tumblers stood, and poured himself a glass. He took a sip, looking over at the two of them, then took a breath, clearing his throat. "So first off, before we discuss my company," he said, "let's get something straight." He paused, frowning slightly. "No, wait, that came out wrong," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What I meant was –"

"I know what you meant, Mister Wayne," said Fox, an amused smile finally lighting up his face. He glanced over at Alfred, then looked back at Wayne. "I guess it's not fair to keep you out of the loop forever, as much fun as it was to see your reactions."

"And believe me, Sir, it was _fun_," Alfred added with a chuckle.

Wayne looked between the two. "What… do you mean?" he asked.

"Just to set the record straight," Fox said, again playing off of Wayne's words, "Alfred and I are just close friends. He dated my sister on and off a few times back in the day…" He glanced over at Alfred, grinning. "But other than that, there hasn't been any kind of _romantic connection_ to me or my family."

"So you mean… you two aren't really…" Wayne pointed to each man in turn, taken aback. "You're not…"

"_Together,_ Mister Wayne," Fox finished his statement. "We're not together."

"But… at the funeral," Wayne argued. "What was that?"

"A bit of brotherly reassurance," Alfred answered, sounding totally sure of himself.

Wayne stared at Alfred, lost. "And all those jokes about… dark meat?" he asked. "And… things… going with…" Wayne's bewildered expression made Fox laugh out loud, and instantly Wayne turned to look at him. "What the hell is going on, you guys?" he asked.

"Well, Mister Wayne," explained Fox, "right before Alfred went to bring you back from Asia, we decided to play a little prank on you, to see how long it would take you to notice, or to comment on it." He raised his eyebrows. "To tell you the truth, I'm surprised it took you _this_ long," he told him.

"I… just assumed that something had gone on while I had been gone, and…" Wayne shook his head, still lost for words. "Well, I wasn't about to say anything about it. It's not really any of my business, but…" He looked between the two of them. "That was just cruel, guys," he said, trying to keep from laughing, himself. "God-_damn_."

Fox chuckled again, then asked, "Well, now that that's over with… shall we discuss the future of Wayne Enterprises?"

Wayne settled himself more comfortably into his chair, cleared his throat, and nodded, smiling at Fox. "Yeah," he agreed. "That sounds good."

"All right," said Fox, winking at Wayne amiably. He crossed one leg over the other, leaning on the armrest of his chair, and a slightly more serious expression came to his face. "I've been looking over the numbers," he told Wayne, "and I have some good news. With the reattachment of WayneTech to the main company of Wayne Enterprises, your stocks will go back up to where they used to be."

"But we're missing an employee at WayneTech," Wayne pointed out. "It can't function properly unless it has all the bases covered."

"Somebody applied for the job today, actually," Fox said, nodding. "Named _Coleman Reece_. He seemed very jumpy, but he had a good record, graduated from a good college…"

"Tetch isn't dead for three days and already somebody's jumping on his job?" Wayne asked, frowning.

Fox grinned. "You know," he told Wayne, "that's exactly what I said."

Wayne raised his eyebrows, taking a sip of water. "Great minds think alike," he commented.

"You do know what this means, don't you, Sir?" Alfred asked.

Wayne looked over at Alfred. "Yeah, it means that Wayne Enterprises will go back to functioning on all its pistons. We'll end up just fine, in the end."

"It also means, Mister Wayne," Fox said, "that you should probably think about cancelling your merger with Sweets, Inc."

Wayne turned back to Fox, frowning, and set down his glass of ice water. "Shit," he swore under his breath. "I totally forgot about the merger. How long does it take before the merger goes into effect?"

"Three business days," Fox answered. "So since you only signed it yesterday, you should be just fine if you cancel it by tomorrow."

Wayne nodded, checking his Rolex, and let out a breath. "I need to get changed," he said, getting up from his chair. "Crime never sleeps."

"Try not to pick up any more stray women this time around, all right, Master Wayne?" Alfred called after him as Wayne disappeared through the doors. Alfred glanced over at Fox, who was biting thoughtfully on the earpiece of his glasses. "Why didn't we think to go tromping around in costumes to pick up girls when we were in college?" he asked with a grin.

Fox looked over at him, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "You didn't?" he asked.

. . .

Selina's eyes fluttered open as she woke from her troubled, light sleep, and she looked up to see that Napier's eyes were also open. He was staring at the ceiling, as if there were something fascinating there that only he could see. Selina frowned, then asked, "What are you thinking about?"

"My daughter," Napier answered frankly. He took a deep breath, wetting his lips, then closed his eyes. "She hates me, you know," he told Selina.

Selina played with a tendril of greenish hair. "I'm sure she doesn't _hate_ you," she said.

Napier nodded. "I know she does," he answered, quieter. "And I can't blame her…" He opened his eyes again, staring at the ceiling. "I can't blame her," he repeated in a lower voice. Then he closed his eyes again, taking another deep, calming breath.

There was a long moment of silence. Selina stared up into Napier's face, then let out a sigh. "You know," she said, "once, I thought I was pregnant. I thought… it was Warren's." She looked away from his face, laying her head on his chest. "I missed a period, and I started _freaking out_… like, _really_. I started thinking I was sick, but it was all in my head, and then there were the mood swings…" She let out a bitter laugh. "All the signs," she said. "But it turned out that they were just induced by stress. I got my usual period a week or so later than usual, but it came."

There was another long moment of silence. Then Napier's eyes shot open. "Shit!" he exclaimed, sitting up in bed. "What if that's it?! What if that's…" He put a hand to his swimming head. "Shit!" he exclaimed again, getting to his feet and starting to grab up his clothes off the floor. Selina turned over onto her stomach, watching him with a confused frown.

"Where are you going?" she asked, sounding slightly frantic.

"I'm going to see Jeanette," Napier announced. "I have to see if she's okay… see if I… did something to her I… shouldn't've…" He picked up his still-torn patterned shirt, pulling it on shoddily and starting to button it up. He stopped halfway through, realizing that he had mis-buttoned it, then grabbed his vest and started trying to pull it on as well.

"Jeanette is probably asleep by now," Selina told him. She reached over to her bedstand, pulling her cell phone from her purse, and checked the time on it. "It's past eleven," she told him. "It's almost midnight."

"I have to… have to go see Jeanette," Napier insisted, awkwardly trying to pull on one of his socks. It got stuck between his toes and refused to go on, no matter how much he pulled on it, so he left it and picked up his tie. He decided to not even try to bother with it, instead draping it around his neck as he went looking for his other clothes. "She's depending on me," he went on. "She… we're s'posed to be in hiding…"

"Hiding?" Selina asked, propping herself up on her elbows. "Hiding from who?"

Napier stumbled over his pants, then turned and picked them up, slipping them on, then let out an irritated noise when he realized that he had just put them on backwards. "It doesn't matter," he said, starting to sound a little bit peeved. "We're just… s'posed to be hiding. I shouldn't be here." He took off his pants, turning them around and pulling them on again, zipping them up, then glanced over and saw his boxers sitting on the floor. Napier wet his lips, letting out a slightly exasperated sigh. Then he turned towards the door of the bedroom. "I'm going," he announced.

"Come back," Selina pleaded, holding a hand out towards him. She bit her lip, sitting up in bed. "Please come back," she begged. "Come back to bed, Joe."

"No," Napier insisted. "I have to go… to Jeanette."

"Do you really think Jeanette wants to see you like this?" Selina asked, perhaps a bit too sharply, pulling her final card. She took a breath, trying to keep her head level. "I mean, _look_ at you," she went on. "You're a mess. What will she think, if she sees you like this, with your clothes on all screwy?"

Napier paused in the doorway, staring at the door handle, swaying slightly, then hung his head. "You're… you're right…" he said quietly. He wet his lips and swallowed. "She… doesn't want to see me like… this." He turned back to face Selina, his eyes shining with the start of tears, and shook his head. "She doesn't want to see me… like this," he repeated.

Selina reached out an inviting hand towards him, offering for him to come back to her in the bed, and he moved towards her, finally sitting down heavily on the bed. He paused for a moment, taking quick, shallow breaths, and then broke down into pathetic sobs. His strong shoulder shook as he curled up into a half-ball on the side of the bed, resting his elbow on his knee, his forehead in his palm.

"She's right," Napier sobbed. "I _am_ worthless. I _am_ pathetic." He put his hands over his face, crying helplessly into them. "I _am_ a failure," he moaned.

"Shh," Selina said, putting a reassuring hand onto his sturdy back. "It's all right. You're not any of that. Come on, now." She pulled herself over to him, sitting behind him, resting her face against his spine, and closed her eyes. "She just isn't the girl for you. You need someone who will love and appreciate you for who you are, even with all your flaws."

Napier turned to look at Selina, his bloodshot eyes surprised. "Who…?" he asked.

Selina offered him a soft smile. "Me," she answered with a shrug. She started to run her finger down his shoulder-blade, tracing it, and raised her eyebrows. "I know you can't help your drinking habits. I won't yell at you if you slip up. And I know how much you love your daughter."

Napier shook his head, looking away again. "She hates me, too," he said. "She'll never trust me again, after what I did to her."

Selina was aching to ask what he did to his daughter that was so terrible, but she resisted the urge, instead putting her arm around Napier's strong chest, resting her head on his shoulder. "Come on," she said into his ear. "Let's go back to sleep. We can talk more about this in the morning." Napier stared at Selina for a long moment, then turned around, crawling back into the bed, still shoddily dressed, and lay down. Selina lay back against her pillows, and Napier put his arms around her slender ribcage, holding onto her so tightly that she thought he might crack her ribs. He buried his face in her hair, still sniffling miserably.

"Thank you," he whispered in her ear. Then he fell asleep against her.

That last simple statement kept Selina awake all night long.

. . .

Jeanette had stayed down for too long; it was an odd feeling, being beaten down so that she couldn't even stand. She finally picked herself up off the floor, brushed away a few pieces of glass, and glanced into the remains of the mirror. She'd have to apologize to Os and Maggie for that. There had been no call for her to lose her temper. She pushed a few errant hairs behind her ears and took a deep, cleansing breath.

Suddenly the need to talk to someone completely crushed her, and she headed back out of the room and down the stairs to the bar. She sat down right across from Maggie, and looked at her with a completely lost expression. "Did I ever tell you I had twins once?"

At the mention of 'twins', Maggie instantly looked up. She had not expected anything like that of Jeanette – and even less so that she would actually _admit_ it, and, even more surprising, that she would admit it to _Maggie_, of all people. She tried to say something, but nothing would come out, so she closed her mouth, swallowing, and took slow, settling breaths. She would let Jeanette speak, for now. She could see that this was a great weight on the woman's mind, and any little thing she could do to help Jeanette was her number-one priority, at the moment.

The words started coming out before Jeanette even realized she was talking. "They were just some guy's...the product of some stupid fling because I was bored, but..." She took a deep breath, drumming her fingers nervously on the countertop. "I'd sort of thought I was pregnant...but it never really hit me until my next physical exam, where the doctor told me that I was already a month in. My parents knew, of course, and they didn't seem to care too much. 'As long as they don't interfere with your work,' I think my father once said." She laughed bitterly.

"They did. They were three years old, a beautiful little girl and the most well-behaved little boy you'd ever meet. God, I don't think I've ever loved anybody more in my life..." She choked off, eyes tearing up. She wiped them with the back of her hand, trying to control herself. "It was stupid, to think that I could have kids. Not with the family I was in. Am in," she corrected herself. "I was just out with them one day, with one of my cousins...They were just three yeas old."

She bit her lip. "All three of them died. Shot. Just like that. I still don't know exactly who did it; just some rival family, or a lunatic with a gun, or..." She finally broke off, looking down at the bar.

She put down her cleaning-cloth, listening as Jeanette detailed to her the sad story of the deaths of her children, and bit her lip as she felt a lump rising in her throat. She quickly wiped her watering eyes with the back of her hand, trying to appear steadfast to Jeanette. That was what she needed right now, someone strong, not just another flighty, emotional pat on the back. Maggie wrung her cloth between her hands, not sure of what to say. She could not tell Jeanette that it was going to be 'all right' – something like that never went away, and Maggie knew well that it would never be 'all right'.

"I'm… sorry," she breathed, putting her hand on Jeanette's reassuringly. She stared at their hands for a long moment, shaking her head. "I… can't even imagine what it must be like, to lose a child… _Two_ children," she corrected herself. "Three… with your poor little cousin." She shook her head, running her thumb over Jeanette's hand. "I'm… _so_ sorry," she said again. She blinked away a new wave of tears, sniffing, then looked up at Jeanette, removing her hand from Jeanette's and taking a deep breath.

"I've always wanted to have a child," Maggie told her. "But things never worked out that way, for me. Now I'm getting a little older, and…" She looked away, letting out a sigh. "Of course, the subject hasn't been on my mind a lot for the past few years, since the tragedy that occurred the _last_ time I wanted children…" Maggie looked up at Jeanette, her eyes sad. "I was going to adopt," she said. She took a deep breath, then picked up her cloth again and went back to cleaning the counter.

"The Iceberg was a successful business, and we were making plenty of money, so I thought it would be a great time for me to adopt a child," she explained. "I'd always wanted children, and I thought it would be a good thing for me to do, to adopt a child. I had put an advertisement in the paper, asking for anyone considering putting their child up for adoption to contact me. A few days later, I got a call from a woman in town." Maggie paused in her cleaning, considering her story. "She was… well, I feel bad saying 'poor', but that's what she was. She and her husband were barely making ends meet, and she didn't feel like she could take care of a child, all things considered."

Maggie took a deep breath. "We arranged for everything, and it was going… all right, for about eight months, but then…" She paused in her cleaning. "I heard that there had been a fire at her house, and that she and the baby had died, and her husband had been shipped off to Arkham Asylum." She glanced up at Jeanette, then went back to cleaning the counter. "Of course, I assumed the worst…" She shrugged, her eyes returning to Jeanette's face. "It was a long time ago," she said. "It makes me sad to think about it. I've tried to push the thought from my mind."

There was too much going on in this town. Jeanette wondered idly for the first time if anyone truly realized how connected all of the humans beings in Gotham City were. But that stretched a bit too far into philosophy, and _that_ was one road down which she did not want to go at this point in her life, with everything that was happening.

So she merely nodded sadly along with Kitty's story.

Finally, she glanced up at Maggie, a mixture of shame and relief in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Maggie," she said quietly. "I had to tell someone. Because now, with all this...business going on...I think I might be..." She stopped again, looking away.

Suddenly, Maggie froze in her cleaning and looked up at Jeanette, her eyes wide. She dropped the cloth to the floor, her mouth opening slightly in shock as she stared at the younger woman. "What?" she asked in a hoarse whisper. She put a hand to her mouth, then instantly took it away, thinking it was probably not the ideal reaction. She took a settling breath, trying to calm her instantly excited nerves, and closed her eyes, collecting her thoughts. Then she opened her eyes and looked at Jeanette. "Do you know… whose it is?" she asked, trying to keep her voice calm.

A wry smile lifted the edges of Jeanette's mouth at Maggie's question, and she looked grimly up at her. "Who do you think?" she said, getting up. "You know as well as I do." She sighed, glancing up at the ceiling with her hands on her hips. "I suppose I'd better get this taken care of as quickly as possible. You don't have a phone book around here, do you?"

She thought for a moment, then added hesitantly, "By the way, Maggie...I am sorry about what happened with my father earlier. There was no call for him to involve you - _or_, you know, the Lounge - with all this." She paused. "It would probably be safer if you and Os kept me out of here for a while. At least until things settle down."

Maggie bit her lip. Of course she had known what the answer to her question would be – the truth was, she just hoped she was wrong. It amazed her how someone like the Joker could finagle his way into the heart of someone like Jeanette, but, then again, she had given up being surprised by anything a long time ago. It was what came of living in a town like Gotham, where nothing was as it should be and people got mugged and murdered walking home from work every day of the week. If the GPD did not find a fresh body every morning, someone was not doing their job.

Then again, she reasoned, watching Jeanette, her sad eyes, the regal way she carried herself, she could see where the attraction could arise. Jeanette was a woman who stood alone, who needed no one but herself to make her life complete, who revelled in the comfort of others only when she needed a morale boost. The Joker was much the same, but in a totally different way – selfish, conniving, cruel, and, Maggie had to admit, from what she could tell, not the brightest crayon in the box. Between the two of them, they made up the strangest odd couple Maggie had ever seen.

But she was not one to talk. After all, she had been Os' right-hand woman for as long as either of them could remember. But somehow, she reasoned, she and Os seemed to be a lot more compatible than Napier and Jeanette.

Maggie was surprised by Jeanette's request, and it took her a moment to collect her thoughts before she replied, "Oh, uh… sure." She reached under the bar and pulled out a heavy tome, which she set in front of Jeanette. Then she frowned, putting a hand on top of the book. "You're not thinking of doing anything rash, are you?" she asked, her expression wrought with worry. "You aren't thinking of… getting rid of the baby, are you?" She took a breath, looking away, then removed her hand from the phonebook. "I know it really isn't any of my business what you do with your baby," she said, her voice low. "But, after years of trying and never being able to have one, myself, I…"

She shut her mouth, taking a deep breath, and turned away from Jeanette. "There's a phone in the upstairs bedroom," she said, sniffing, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. She picked up her cloth off the floor and dabbed at her eyes with it, trying not to let Jeanette see that she was crying. It was really not up to Maggie to tell Jeanette what to do; she was sure that Jeanette was only doing what was the best thing for her. It was stupid, really, Maggie realized, to try to convince someone like Jeanette to keep her child. She didn't want the child, and she had no means of taking care of it, with her lifestyle. Maybe it was better if Jeanette did not keep the baby.

Maggie cleared her throat, wiping the last of her tears from her eyes, and turned back to Jeanette, shaking her head and offering her a reassuring, though sad, smile. "That's all right, dear," she said. "We get all kinds of people in here. It was bound to happen some day." She shrugged, looked down at the phonebook, and shook her head. "We would never keep you out of here for something like that," she said. "It's… this is a dangerous town. We don't pretend to ignore that fact. No matter what we do, no matter what precautions we take, we're going to end up in some predicament, anyways."

She sighed, tracing the edge of the phonebook distractedly. "We would never kick you out of here," she told Jeanette. "You're the only friend we have left in this town, and we intend to do everything in our power to help you." Maggie paused for a moment, her brow furrowing slightly, and took a deep, preparing breath. "Don't you think you ought to… tell him, first?" she asked, looking up at Jeanette. "You know, before you… do whatever it is you've decided you're going to do." She bit her lip, worrying if she had said too much. "I'd think he… would like to know."

Jeanette snorted derisively, taking the phone book and propping it against her hip. "You honestly think he would care?" she said. "It's not like he did anything to prevent it. And he can't even deal with the daughter he already has." The thought of Jeannie Rose depressed Jeanette all over again, but she shoved it away. She had enough on her plate already; she'd get to it all in time, and that's the best she could do. "He _hit_ her, Maggie. He was drunk, granted, but he _hit_ his daughter." She looked at Maggie with furious eyes. "He doesn't need to know."

She turned to head upstairs, then paused and glanced at Maggie. It was clear that the other woman was upset by this whole thing. It probably had a lot to do with the fact that she herself couldn't have children. Maggie wasn't one to be jealous, but Jeanette could see how this topic might be a bit more touchy than others. She sighed and, looking down at the counter, said, "You know...I guess I'll wait to tell him before I do anything." Her eyes met Maggie's, and she set the phone book back on the counter.

Then she looked away again, shifting her feet uncomfortably. "I've never told you this, before, but you and Os really have done a lot for me," she said quietly, each word sounding like she was having to drag it through molasses. "Thank you. For everything." She was silent for a moment, then turned and went back up the stairs to wait for the morning and try to get some sleep.


	70. Chapter SixtyNine

"So like I was saying, Hale, I'm not sure our readers will like your new take on this whole thing - you know how these sheep are, they can't handle change unless you push it on them slower'n molasses - and this is more editorial than you usually do...I mean, you're practically offering your own opinion, minus the facts from that 'anonymous informant' you keep referring to. But you've been with this office for years, and I know what you've been through..."

Thomas sighed, and static hissed through the phone, cutting off the senior editor. Across the line there was a pause, then Matt Bolland continued, "Well, we published it. Like you said. Front-page, editorial-style, with your name smack under the headline. Why the sudden need for attention, by the way?"

Thomas frowned, staring out the window at the morning traffic beginning to pick up, and replied, "An acquaintance of mine was counting on me for that article. Thanks again, Matt." With that, he hung up the phone and ran his fingers nervously through his hair.

It had been the worst night of his life. He'd spent half of it fretting about Crane and what he'd do if Thomas' article didn't appear in the paper, and the other half staring at his locked and dead bolted door, figuring that at any moment the Joker would come storming in with a hurt pride and a switch knife. He wasn't sure if it was a good thing that nothing _had_ happened; after all, all it had done was frayed his nerves to the point of breaking.

He wasn't sure what to do now. Maria had flat-out refused his cry for help for God only knew what reason. Thomas couldn't go to the police without being put under arrest again. He had no high-up connections in the city that he could turn to, unless Gordon was in a particularly forgiving mood, but he was sure the man had been run ragged by the storm that had taken the city in the last week. Murders, disappearances, sightings of a crazed man in clown makeup...

Unable to stand the waiting, Thomas finally threw on a coat and grabbed his car keys. He was going to see Gordon; the man couldn't possibly turn him away once he saw how badly-off he was.

. . .

"Her vitals are much improved from when you brought her in. There's going to be some major scarring in the area, but I think it'll be able to recover well enough in time..."

Kaitlyn shot up in her bed, thinking that she was still back in the apartment. The Joker was going to kill her...his little girlfriend, too. Something was touching her shoulder; she turned to whoever's hand it was and screamed, "GET OFF...!"

Robert's eyes were wide with surprise, but he pushed her down calmly. "Settle down, Kait," he insisted, settling her back onto the pile of pillows as a nurse helped on the other side. Kaitlyn took another look around. She wasn't in an apartment at all. She was in a hospital room. Finally, her memories of the night before returned. She faintly recalled being put in an ambulance before completely blacking out. And Robert had been there.

She looked up at her friend. "How the heck did you find me?" she croaked. One of the nurses left her line of sight and came back with a cup of water. Kaitlyn drained it and sat up again, more gently this time. Something throbbed in her arm, her hand, but she was too scared to look there yet. "Why'd you come looking?" The sheepish look on his face was all she needed. "You were _worried_?

"Well, you never called or showed up, and it had been a while, and I got to thinking about exactly what part of town you'd gone to..." he explained, looking away and ruffling his curls thoughtlessly.

"Whatever, Boom. Guess I owe you one, then." Kaitlyn grinned, unsure whether she should be offended or touched. Finally, she looked down at her arm, which was bandaged all the way up to her shoulder. "So how bad it is?"

"Several stab wounds and slashes, the doctor said," he replied. He hesitated, and Kaitlyn knew there must be more. She raised her eyebrows at him. Finally, he sighed. "There'll be permanent scarring...and you won't be using that arm for a long time. The hand, too. If ever."

Kaitlyn closed her eyes, miserable. They both knew what that meant. You couldn't be a cop without a trigger finger, and Kaitlyn was very decidedly right-handed. She was done with. Robert scooted his chair closer to the bedside and hugged her awkwardly around the shoulders. "I'm so sorry, Fuse," he said quietly.

She shook her head, not wanting to talk about it yet. "What about Bard?" she asked.

Robert shrugged. "I called and gave him a piece of my mind," he replied. "I don't know if he'll stop by. Probably not."

Kaitlyn nodded, scowling. "Yeah. Definitely not."

. . .

As soon as Napier opened his eyes, he wished he had not. The familiar splitting pain in his head was back, and he knew that could only mean one thing. He sat up and massaged his temples for a moment, then looked down to make sure he was still dressed. Thankfully, he found that he was, though his shirt buttons were all askew. He unbuttoned them and then buttoned them correctly again, then leaned over the side of the bed, picked up his vest, and slipped it on, buttoning it up as well.

As he began tying on his tie, he started looking around the room where he had been sleeping. It seemed like an overlarge hotel room, maybe even some kind of suite. He remembered Maggie saying that she and Os had a bedroom upstairs in the Lounge, but he had never imagined it to be something like this. But he had never gone up to the upstairs bedroom in the Lounge. He wet his lips, scratching absentmindedly at his crotch, as he tried to think back to the night before. He remembered Jeanette going upstairs to rest – and he remembered thinking how much she needed it – and then Maggie's cold shoulder, and their slight tiff, and then he remembered getting up and leaving the Lounge.

Napier let out a breath, frowning, and rubbed irritably at his eyes as he tried to recall what had happened then. He had gone to White's casino, in the Narrows. He had gotten a drink, or two… and then that woman had come along, that… _Selina Kyle_ woman, and she had sat down beside him at the bar. And then… Napier froze as he heard a quiet exhale from behind him and smelled the sudden scent of cigarette smoke. Then he turned around to see Selina sitting on the other side of the bed, fully dressed, smoking a cigarette.

Napier frowned deeply, ignoring his hangover for a moment. "What are _you_ doing here?" he asked in an unamused growl.

Selina looked up at him, bored, and exhaled smoke. "The same thing you're doing, I assume," she said. She brought the cigarette back to her mouth and took another drag. "Waking up. Getting dressed." She let the smoke seep through her lips, then she sighed. "Getting ready to face another miserable day."

Napier slitted his eyes at her, confused. Then he turned around, picking up his shoes and socks off the floor, and slipped them on, only having a little trouble with one of his shoes. "Well," he announced, "I'm getting the fuck out of here."

"The door's that way," Selina said, indicating towards it.

Napier got up and started for the door, but stopped when he saw his underwear still sitting in the middle of the floor. He slowly crossed to them and picked them up, then looked up at Selina, biting his lip. "Is there… another room, where I can change?" he asked haltingly.

Selina glanced over at him, looking him up and down, and exhaled a line of smoke. "Why bother?" she asked with a shrug, turning away again. "I've seen it all before."

Napier was shocked for a moment. Then he balled up his boxers in his hands and glared at Selina. "Look," he said, clenching his teeth, "I don't know what you tricked me into doing last night, or what I said to you, but I don't want anything to do with you, do you hear me?" He pulled off his shoes and socks, then, with a hesitant pause, proceeded to strip off his pants as well. He looked back up at Selina as he pulled on his boxers. "I was never supposed to be here. I… I don't know why I came here, but whatever happened last night – _if_ anything happened last night…"

"Oh, it did, honey," Selina replied, monotone. "You can be sure of that." She let out a deep sigh. "And you'll be back," she added.

"I don't want you breathing a word of it to _anyone_ – do you hear me?" Napier zipped up his pants, glaring at Selina, his tone dangerous. "You won't mention this to anyone. _Especially_ not Jeanette."

"Always this and that about _Jeanette_, for God's sake," Selina exclaimed, turning back to him. "If you like her so much, then why don't you just fuckin' marry her?"

Napier was taken aback for a moment. Then his angry glare returned. "I'm already married!" he exclaimed. "I have a wife, and a child! I promised Jeanette I would try to get my life in order for them, and if you go spilling that I did anything like _this_—"

"Oh, shut the fuck up, Jack!" Selina shouted, standing up from the bed. She stubbed out her cigarette angrily in the ashtray on the nightstand, then turned back to face him again. "Yeah, I know your name is really _Jack_," she said. "I ain't stupid. It's always a fuckin' pity party over in Jack-ville, and you're always the only one who's ever invited! It's always _my dead wife, this_ or _my daughter, that_. I mean, for chrissakes, if you really _cared_ about any of this shit, you'd quit bitching to me about it and go _do_ something!"

For a long moment, Napier did not know what to say. He just stared at Selina, his head throbbing, shocked speechless. Then he closed his mouth and wet his lips, nodding, and turned slightly, fumbling for the door handle. "I…" he said, looking down at the floor. "I… should…" He took a breath, looking back up at Selina, then picked up his shoes and socks and let himself out the door, closing it quietly behind him, still surprised at how much her words had hit him.

Once out in the hallway, Napier clenched his teeth, grunting in pain at his throbbing head, then bent and started pulling on his shoes and socks. When they were securely on, he turned and started down the stairs, into the casino, itself. The place seemed eerily quiet, as compared to the usual throbbing lights and music. It was a grey, smoky place in the daytime, and looked strangely skeletal with all the lights turned on and no patrons in sight. He made his way to the bar, where White was already sitting, reading the paper. When he heard someone approaching, he folded the post and looked over it at the newcomer. Seeing it was Napier, he offered him a toothy, yellow grin.

"Long time, no see," he commented. He looked around at the empty bar, then back at Napier. "As you can see, we're closed right now," he said, puffing on his cigar. "But since you spent the night, I'll cut you some slack. I won't bust out the boys to bust your kneecaps this time."

"I'm not in the mood," Napier said with a heavy sigh, resting his head in his hand and closing his eyes. He wet his lips, then looked up at Rosa. "Do you have any aspirin?" he asked. "I need at least four, and… a glass of water."

"Make it a glass of whiskey," White put in. "Makes the medicine go down quicker." He chuckled, rustling the paper as he started reading the front-page story again. "Hey, have you taken a look at this morning's paper?" he asked, clenching his cigar between his teeth as his grey eyes scanned the front page of the post. "It's a pretty good read, better than they usually turn out."

"I don't read," Napier said, taking the aspirin that Rosa gave him and swallowing them with a glass of potent whiskey. He made a face as the stinging liquid burned down his throat.

"You can't read?" White asked, looking at Napier over the top of his paper again.

Napier looked over at White with an incredulous frown. "I said I _don't_ read," he said. "Not I _can't_ read."

White shrugged, going back to reading his paper. "One usually stems from the other," he muttered.

"What's the story?" Napier asked, trying to change the subject. He was not in the mood to pick a fight with White this morning. "It's got to be something interesting, if they've got _you_ reading."

"Oh, it's some article by that two-bit hack Thomas Hale," White answered, rustling the paper again.

"Hale?" Napier asked, intrigued.

"Yeah, Hale," said White, looking up. "I didn't think you'd know about him, since you can't – sorry, _don't_ – read." He smirked, looking back at the paper and raising his eyebrows, taking his cigar from his teeth and considering the article text. "He usually writes glorified bullshit," he commented, "but today his article's pretty damn good." He wet his lips, clenching his cigar between his teeth again, and said, "Here, let me read you my favourite part…"

White cleared his throat and started to read aloud, "For weeks, the city of Gotham has been locking their doors and windows, afraid to leave their houses, terrified of being the next one on the hit list of the murderous sociopath known as the Joker, but in reality, the Joker, whose real name is _Jack Napier_…" at this, he looked up at Napier, his grey eyes knowing, "…is nothing more than a pathetic, hypocritical shade of a man who feels he can make up for his shortcomings and hide his inadequacies by terrorizing helpless, unarmed individuals and bragging about it to the general public."

"What?!" Napier snatched the paper out of White's hands, scanning it, his frown growing darker as he got further down the page. "Heavy drug and alcohol abuse and a fixation with a need to be loved…?" he said, incredulous. "Tries to justify himself with overdramatized sob stories detailing the origins of his scarred visage, none of which are actually true…?"

"Sounds like this Hale guy knows you pretty well," White chuckled, puffing at his cigar.

Napier clenched his teeth, a vein throbbing in his cheek as he tossed down the paper in front of White. "That lying fuck," he hissed. "I'll break his spine." There was no denying that he was angry, but there were more important things than going out for revenge. First, he had to make sure that Jeanette was all right – and that she did not see the newspaper article. Then, once he was convinced that everything was all right, he was going to go after Thomas. Napier turned away from White, starting angrily for the doors of the casino. White picked up the paper and looked over his shoulder after Napier, then looked back at Rosa.

"Lover's quarrel, you think?" he asked, indicating the paper.

Rosa glanced at the paper, then at White, and shrugged. "I can't read," she answered, monotone.

. . .

"For weeks, the city of Gotham has been locking their doors and windows, afraid to leave their houses, terrified of being the next one on the hit list of the murderous sociopath known as the Joker."

Kitty woke to the cutting sound of Crane's voice. She frowned, noting the casual cruelty with which he spoke, and, even more distressingly, the note of satisfied amusement that had entered his voice. She turned over in bed, then sat up, squinting as the sunlight filtered in through the bedroom window. Crane was standing by the window, silhouetted against the radiance, but she could still see his sinister, crystalline eyes, almost demonic in the way they lit up against the rest of his shadowed face. In his hands, he held a large, folded piece of what seemed to be newspaper. Kitty frowned, holding up a hand to shade her eyes against the light.

"What are you… reading?" she asked, still half-asleep.

"Just the post," Crane replied airily. "Apparently Gerald forgot to cancel his subscription when he… took his own life." He arched an eyebrow, letting out a sigh and pursing his lips. "Terrible tragedy," he said casually. "For the newspaper company, that is. They will be expecting payment soon." He rustled the paper, finding his spot again, then started reading again. "But in reality, the Joker, whose real name is Jack Napier…" Crane looked up at Kitty, smirking coldly. "Does that name sound familiar?" he asked.

Kitty's frown deepened, and she dropped her hand, staring at Crane. "What?" she asked. "The Joker? That…" She looked away, still a bit dazed. "That's just…"

"Whose real name is Jack Napier," Crane went on without waiting for her to finish her statement, "is nothing more than a pathetic, hypocritical shade of a man who feels he can make up for his shortcomings and hide his inadequacies by terrorizing helpless, unarmed individuals and bragging about it to the general public." His cruel smirk widened as his clear eyes returned to Kitty's face. "Now _that_ is more like it," he said with a sadistic chuckle.

Kitty tossed the covers off of herself and crossed to Crane, taking the paper from his hands, more forceful than he expected, and turned away from him, reading it. Her dull blue eyes grew wide as she read further down the article. "Heavy drug and alcohol abuse and a fixation with a need to be loved…?" she asked, her voice almost hoarse. She looked back over her shoulder at Crane. "What _is_ this? Who would write something like this?"

"What's the matter, Kitty?" Crane asked, taking the paper back from her as he walked past her towards the doors of the bedroom. "The media never lies." He unfolded the paper, scanning the page. "Where was it…?" he asked. "Ah, here: He tries to justify himself with overdramatized sob stories detailing the origins of his scarred visage, none of which are actually true." He turned to look at Kitty, smirking. "It seems you just aren't important enough to make it into his history anymore, doll," he told her.

Kitty was speechless. "What are you talking about?" she asked, glaring at Crane, stunned.

Crane folded the paper, taking a deep breath, then shrugged. "Well, why don't you ask _Jack_ yourself?" he asked. He tapped the folded paper against the palm of his opposite hand, smiling cruelly, his glasses flashing in the morning light coming in through the window. "If everything goes according to plan," he said, his voice low, "then I get the feeling we're going to be seeing him… _very_ soon."

. . .

Maggie had not heard from either Jeanette or Napier all night, and was starting to get worried. She checked the clock on the wall, noting that it was almost ten in the morning. Her eyes were getting heavy with sleep deprivation, and it was about an hour or two past the time when she was supposed to be swapping shifts on the Lounge, but she did not want to wake Jeanette. Besides, there was a perfectly good second mattress in the back room, and she was not too high and mighty to use it.

She sighed, rubbing absently at a single spot on the counter, not even noticing that it had stopped being dirty hours ago, wondering if she should wake up Jeanette and see what her thoughts were. The previous night's controversial conversation had given Maggie an odd feeling, though she could not quite place what it was. She frowned, staring at the now excessively shiny counter, and folded her hands over the cloth, thinking. Jealousy was not in her nature, and neither was scorn, but the prospect of someone, especially someone who had had children before and lost them, getting rid of an unborn child… it made her want to cry. More than cry, it almost made her sick. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, biting her lip.

"Maggie?" Cobblepot asked, moving over to the bar and sitting down. He folded his hands in front of him. "Are you all right, darling?"

Maggie opened her eyes, paused, and then smiled reassuringly at Cobblepot. "Yes," she answered, her voice soft. "I'm just fine." Now not sure what to do with herself, she propped her hand on her hip, staring at Cobblepot. "It's just been a long night," she told him.

Cobblepot glanced up at the clock behind Maggie and frowned. "Why, my dear, it's almost ten," he said, looking back at her, a worried expression on his face. "You've been awake for nearly twenty-six hours. Why are you still on duty?"

"I've just been worried, that's all," Maggie admitted, frowning slightly. She put down her cleaning-cloth and fiddled with one of her rings. "What with Jeanette, and her father, and that Joker character…" She shrugged, her voice fading out. "Everything just keeps building up," she said, folding her arms to keep herself from fidgeting. "One of these days, I know it's all going to come crashing down."

Cobblepot slowly twiddled his thumbs, pursing his lips in thought. He glanced over towards the stairs, then back at Maggie. "You know there's another mattress downstairs," he said, indicating the door to the back room. "Unless you'd like me to wake dear Jeanette so you can use the upstairs one."

"No, no," Maggie said, shaking her head vehemently. "I'm all right, Os. _Really._ I just…" She looked away, towards the stairs, and sighed. "I'm going to go see if Jeanette is awake," she said, turning away from him and moving to the end of the bar. She let herself out and headed for the stairs, opening the door and then closing it behind her. She paused in the stairwell, staring up at the top of the flight of stairs, thinking. She did not really want to wake Jeanette, but she did want to know how she was doing, and if she had any more thoughts on what she was going to do with her child.

Maggie ran a hand through her short strawberry-blonde hair, realizing that she had been too stressed to remember to wash or manage it in at least two days. That was what happened when things started to fall apart around people, they, too, started to fall apart. Maggie held onto the railing, biting her lip, and started up the stairs towards Jeanette's room. When she reached the landing, she moved to the door, taking the handle gently, and turned it, opening the door the slightest crack and peeking inside.

"Jeanette?" she asked softly. She did not want to wake Jeanette, but she did want to be loud enough to get her attention, if she was already awake. "Dear, are you awake?"

Jeanette woke up slowly and unwillingly, groaning as she rolled over to face the door. Once she saw Maggie standing there hesitantly, though, everything clicked and she sprang out of the bed. "I'm so sorry," she said, hurriedly tidying up. "How late is it...? Here, you could have gotten rid of me if you wanted..." She straightened the pillows and, after that, her hair, then turned again to Maggie with a tired smile. "I haven't slept that late in _years_."

She sighed, glancing at the bathroom as she remembered the night before. "Listen, I may have lost my temper a bit last night," she said, embarrassed, "and that bathroom mirror...I didn't mean to break it," she amended. "I can pay for it. I'm sorry." She paused again, then looked Maggie in the eye with a frank expression. "He's not back yet, is he?"

She didn't wait for an answer, because she knew exactly what it would be. Instead, she breezed by Maggie with another apology and headed back down to the main bar, where she was greeted with a bit of a shock. One of the men sitting at the bar, looking bored and picking his teeth with one finger, was one of the hitmen that had been with her father last night.

He looked up as she walked into the room, then held his hands up to show he wasn't armed. _Like he'd carry it in the open anyway,_ Jeanette thought with a scowl, suspicious. "What do you want?"

He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and held it out to her; she took it cautiously and glanced at it for a moment. "It's Mr. Rossini's new number," he explained, getting up and dusting off his Armani suit. "He has changed it since he last saw you, and he said you might need it." Jeanette nodded, taking another, longer look at the number. It might come in handy, especially with the plan she'd begun to formulate before bed last night. She looked up to find the man gone, thought for a moment, then pulled her cell phone out of her pocket, where it had been digging into her thigh all night.

"I was beginning to wonder if you'd _ever_ wake up."

Jeanette sighed, amazed at Benito's ability to irritate her with a single sentence. "It was a long night. Not that you helped at all." She could hear him chuckling over the line.

"That's all very well and good, Jeanette, but you can't blame me. Blame that oaf of yours." He gave her no chance to reply, asking immediately, "What do you want?"

"I have a way I could do what you asked me to, but I need some manpower in order to pull it off, and I know you brought a bit of muscle here that isn't busy."

She could almost hear the delight in his voice as he said, "Actually, my men are all tied up with...another job. Can't be helped; you'll have to do with what you can find." He paused a moment, then asked slyly, "Aren't you wondering where that friend of yours went last night? I'm sure one of my men would have a report of interest to you."

"You're having him _followed_?"

"Don't sound so shocked, dear," he scolded, the condescension strong in his tone. "Of course I am, to make sure he won't run off now that he knows the price of you not doing your job."

"He wouldn't run off," she said, gritting her teeth and pinching the bridge f her nose to stave off what was sure to be a killer headache.

"Oh, don't make him out to be such an angel, dear. After all, do you know what he _really_ did last night?"

Something about the joy in Benito's voice made Jeanette not want to know. "I don't care," she said, failing at making her tone dismissive.

Benito seemed determined to tell her anyway. "He was with that other little 'friend' of his."

"Shut up."

"Something Kyle, I think her name was...Selina, maybe?"

"Shut _up_."

"You know, I'd have thought you'd keep better tabs on your men. I'd think you'd make sure that this one, especially, wasn't screwing around with other females, since you seem so _fond_ of him..."

"_SHUT UP._" It didn't matter if Jeanette knew that her father was just trying to make her angry; it worked all the same. He chuckled again.

"Dear, dear, temper. You'll have a breakdown if you keep that up, and you probably can't afford that, what with the chances of you being pregnant."

There was a pause, but Jeanette was beyond being shocked by what her father did. "So you're having _me_ followed, too?"

This time, the paused lasted almost a full minute. She thought her father had hung up, but finally the silence was broken by his completely shocked voice. "...You _are_?"

"What are you talking about?" she asked, lost.

"I wasn't being _serious_, Jeanette," he said, still sounding thrown. "You're really pregnant?" Now the anger was beginning to slip into his tone.

Jeanette grit her teeth. This was the last conversation she wanted to be having with this man. "There is the possibility, yes."

Now when he spoke, the familiar businesslike air was back in Benito's voice. "You will get rid of it. Now. You can't afford to have this sort of..._problem_ right now."

Jeanette clenched her fist, replying sarcastically, "Oh, so _now_ you're giving the fatherly advice." There was another paused, and she muttered, "I was planning on it."

"Good." Benito was fully in control again. "Good. Now, as I said, I really can't spare anyone. Besides, you are to get this done yourself." He paused, and she could hear the cold smile in his voice the next time he spoke. "Maybe you could ask that friend of yours to help. I'm sure he'd be interested, as long as you offered him sort of of…recompense." With that, the line went dead.

Jeanette stared down at the cell phone for a moment, and then threw it into the wall and planted both palms on the bar, breathing slowly with her eyes shut as she tried to calm down.

The aspirin was not working. At least, it was not working fast enough. Napier liked instant gratification, and that was not what he was getting. But that was barely a surprise; he had hailed a cab to get him to the Lounge, and had spent the entire ride trying to keep his scars hidden from the driver, who seemed more interested in the score of whatever sports team was playing on the radio, anyways. When the driver had asked for payment, Napier had considered snapping his neck, but had decided that it would be a waste of time and only make his hangover worse, and had shelled out the cash for the ride, telling the driver to keep the substantial change. Napier was in no mood to hang around for the man to count bills.

He started towards the doors of the Lounge and reached out a hand to pull open the door, but as soon as his hand reached the handle, he stopped, standing there, frozen, staring at his reflection in the tinted glass of the double-doors. He was a mess. His hair was dishevelled, his clothing dirty, torn, and wrinkled, his eyes bloodshot, and his fly was still down. He let go of the door handle, swallowing, and zipped up his slacks, then tried to comb his hair with his fingers. He looked at his reflection again, then sniffed himself and let out a huff. He reeked like sweat, liquor, dry blood, and smoke.

Napier made a face, looking up at his reflection in the double-doors again, and then turned, considering just walking away. He was in no condition to see Jeanette. Then he stopped again, staring at the ground. If he walked away now, he was a coward. It did not matter how he looked or smelled – what mattered was that he was _there_, to stand up for what he had done, and to try to make things better. He took a deep breath, preparing himself, then turned back to the double-doors and pulled one open, letting himself into the Lounge.

As soon as he stepped inside, he saw Jeanette standing at the bar. Maggie was lingering awkwardly at the end of the counter, watching Jeanette, a look of utmost concern on her face, but when she heard the doors opening, she looked up at Napier. He could not read her expression at first, but then it turned to one that he could only describe as scorn. She stared at him for a long moment, then looked over towards the wall. He followed her gaze to see Jeanette's smashed phone, and his attention instantly snapped back to Jeanette. If she was that upset, he was sure that she would not be thrilled to see _him_, of all people. But he had to try.

Napier wet his lips, slowly making his way towards Jeanette. He caught Maggie's eye again, and she gave him a warning look, but he looked away, disregarding her. He sat down at the bar beside Jeanette, took a breath, then cleared his throat to get her attention. "I, uh…" He moistened his palate and swallowed, trying to think of what to say. "I went for a walk, last night…" He cursed himself internally; that was the weakest, worst story he could have thought of. After he had been praised and criticized incessantly for all his thorough, convincing scars stories, he could not think of a single story to cover where he had gone the night previous. He folded his hands in front of him on the bar, staring intently at them.

"Look," he said, sighing. "I… I know that I've been… less that perfect." He could have kicked himself. "I've been a bastard to you – a _fucking_ bastard," he corrected himself. He paused, considering for a moment. "Listen, Jeanette," he said, turning to her. "I've got Kitty, and Jeannie Rose, and… _other_ things I need to take care of…" He cleared his throat pointedly. "And you've got your life, and your father, and… you've got a job to do, and I've done nothing but get in the way of you doing that job."

He slitted his eyes at her slightly, making a faint smacking noise with his mouth as he finally came around to his point. "Maybe… we should go our separate ways for a while," he suggested. He picked at a knick in the counter absently, not wanting to make eye contact with her. "You know…" he said, his voice trailing off. "Maybe that would be… best." He shrugged, sniffing. "For both of us," he added.

It was one thing, for Jeanette to have her temper worn to shreds and snapped by her father, who spent most of his life simply trying to find ways to do just that. It was another to have Jack walk in and, with one word, make her as angry as she had been a few minutes ago. But it was no good to have him see her in the same kind of rage, so she stood and glared at him icily.

"Fine. No, _good_," she spat. "Go fuck up someone _else's_ life for a while. Who's it going to be _this_ time?" She grinned sarcastically. "Kitty's again? Jeannie Rose's? Some poor bum off the street? Not like it fucking _matters_..." She threw her hands out to the side. "The great Jack Napier doesn't _care_ who he screws with. He just needs somebody to _love_. Isn't that right? Isn't that all you want? Poor, poor baby."

She could have spat in his face. Instead, she grabbed a pack of cigarettes from an unsuspecting man sitting at the bar. It was too early for him to be drinking or smoking anyway, Jeanette thought viciously, pulling one of the cigarettes out of the container. "If you _really_ want to do anyone any good, you'll help me do what my father asks." If he refused, she reasoned, she could always find some dumb muscle off the street. Not like it would be much of a difference; she just preferred to work with people that she knew. And he _did_ owe her, all things said and done.

Especially done.

She walked angrily towards the door to the back alley, wanting to be alone for a while. She paused at the door and turned to glare at Maggie, transferring her anger (unfairly, she knew, but she was beyond caring) to the woman for a moment. "If you think he really should know, _you_ tell him." With that, she slammed the door behind her, grinding the cigarette between her teeth. She realized that she didn't have any way of lighting it, and grabbed it out of her mouth, throwing it viciously into a dumpster nearby.

Maggie watched as Jeanette left, holding out a hand to stop her, then retrieved it. It was none of her business what Jeanette did with her life, and even if it would hurt her baby if she were to smoke, it was none of Maggie's concern, and there was still the very present possibility that Jeanette would get rid of the child, altogether, anyways. The thought made Maggie want to cry again, but she knew that she had cried more than she should already, and she was not about to break down into tears in front of Napier.

Maggie turned back to Napier, taking a deep breath, and frowned at him. Napier stared at Maggie, looking in lost bewilderment between her and the door where Jeanette had disappeared. "What?" he asked, a sharp, desperate insistence in his voice. "What is she talking about? Tell me _what?_"

Maggie started to open her mouth to speak, when Cobblepot cut over her, "Isn't it _obvious?_" Maggie looked over at Cobblepot in surprise. Cobblepot frowned, pulling out his silver cigarette case and taking a cigarette from it, then putting the cigarette in his mouth and lighting it. He took a long drag of it, then blew the smoke out. "She's obviously had more than enough of you," he told Napier. "You can see it in her face. Jeanette has had a hard life, and you're not helping."

"That's not exactly it," Maggie began to say, quietly, but Cobblepot held up a hand, stopping her as he took another drag of his cigarette. He let the smoke seep from between his lips as he stared at Napier, accusing.

"You saw her father," Cobblepot said, raising his eyebrows. "You know what kind of business her family is involved in. Jeanette is not a _toy_. You cannot just _play_ with her."

Napier scoffed. "I never said I thought she was a _toy,_" he countered, slitting his eyes at Cobblepot.

"Os," Maggie tried to interrupt him again, "that's not what she wanted me to tell him…"

"What?" Napier asked, turning to face Maggie.

"Jeanette is not just a floozy out looking for a good time," Cobblepot went on, totally oblivious, taking another drag on his cigarette.

"Wait, wait," Napier held up a hand to Cobblepot, looking at Maggie. "What were you saying, Maggie?"

"She's a beautiful person, not only on the outside, but also on the inside." Cobblepot kept talking. "She has a heart of gold, and hurting her is like… hurting a child. It's absolutely unforgivable. Jeanette does nothing but ma—"

"Would you shut the fuck up, you fag?!" Napier snapped at Cobblepot. "Maggie is trying to say something _legitimate!_ Shut the fuck up and let her talk!" He started to get to his feet, leaning across the bar menacingly towards Maggie. "Tell me, Maggie," he told her through clenched teeth.

Maggie looked taken aback, and it took her a moment before she collected her thoughts again. Then she swallowed, taking a breath, and said in a hoarse voice, "Jeanette…"

"Yeah?" Napier leaned even further towards her. "What about her? What's wrong with her?"

Maggie frowned, wringing the cleaning-cloth in her hands so hard she was sure she would tear it. Then, looking away, she answered, "Jeanette is… pregnant."

Napier stared at Maggie for a long moment, his mouth hanging open, his eyes glassy. He wet his lips slowly, trying to regain his thoughts, but they were not returning. "What?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"What?" Cobblepot repeated. He looked away, then back at Maggie. "Well, why wouldn't she tell _me?_" he asked. "I'm her dearest friend – apart from this one, who through some magic trick managed to weasel his way into her panties." He jerked his thumb in Napier's direction, but Napier was too distracted to even notice.

"What…" he said again, his voice slightly louder this time. He fell back onto the barstool, sitting stupidly, staring at the counter, his mouth still hanging slightly open, his eyes wide with shock. He shook his head slowly, unable to believe what he was hearing. "That's…"

"She told me last night," Maggie said, unable to stop herself now that she had started. "She seemed upset, but… she said she was going to get rid of it." She bit her lip. "She didn't want to tell you," she said, her voice quieter. "She didn't think you would be able to take the news. She wanted to handle the whole affair quietly without you ever knowing—"

"What, I'm not important enough in this… this _thing's_ life to know about it?" Napier exclaimed, his voice cracking. He turned away, his head clasped between two shaking hands, then took his hands from his head with a grunt of exasperation. "What…" he repeated, in shock.

"She didn't want to hurt you," Maggie said, wringing her cleaning-cloth between her hands. "She knew the whole situation, and she… she knew how you'd react if you knew."

Napier absently wiped a hand across the counter, went to put his head in his hand, then turned away, missing completely. He wet his lips, looking around, seeming totally lost, then shook his head. "No," he said in a low voice. He closed his eyes, shaking his head. "No," he said again.

Maggie frowned, setting down her cleaning-cloth. "What?" she asked. "What do you mean, no?"

"No," Napier repeated, a bit louder. He looked up at Maggie, a deep-set frown on his face, his jaw trembling, his eyes searching hers, the light in them gone. A snarl was forming at the corner of his lip, and he took a breath. "No," he said again, more forceful. He looked away, shaking his head vehemently. "No," he insisted. "No…!"

"Jack?" Cobblepot asked, worried, stubbing out his half-finished cigarette in an ashtray on the counter.

"No!" Napier grabbed fistfuls of hair, folding over double in his bar stool. "No!"

"Are you all right?" Maggie asked, holding out a hesitant hand towards him. As soon as her fingertips touched his arm, Napier thrashed out at her, knocking her hand aside, and screamed at her, wild. Maggie instantly drew back, retreating up against the wall of lined-up bottles, eyes wide. Cobblepot got up from his barstool, taking a few steps back, holding up his hands.

"Listen," he said, trying to use his most soothing voice, "it doesn't have to be like this. You can just talk it over with her… she's just outside…"

"NO!" Napier screamed at him, jumping up from his barstool. He grabbed the barstool he had been sitting on and tried to wrench it out of the ground by the base, but it was nailed fast. With an angry yell, he grabbed the seat of the stool and ripped it off. He turned to the counter, slamming the seat against the counter, making an inch-deep indent in the polished wood. Then he threw the seat at Cobblepot, who ducked in time to avoid getting hit.

"Jack, please!" Maggie tried to take his arm again, but again Napier wrenched his arm from her grip, turning to her.

"NO!" Napier shouted. He grabbed the cleaning cloth out of her hand and tore it clean in half as if it were paper. Ignoring Maggie's exclamations of anguish, he dropped the pieces of the cloth to the floor and moved to one of the tables, picking up one of the upholstered chairs that sat around it, and slammed it into the table, breaking it in half, the four legs splaying, sending splinters flying. Napier grabbed one of the broken-off table chairs and turned back to the bar.

Maggie screamed and ducked behind the bar as he took the table-leg to the rows of bottles behind the bar. Coloured glass and liquor rained down as Napier climbed across the bar and started destroying the well-organized display. "NO!" he howled, his voice getting hoarse. "NO, NO, _NO!_"

"JACK, _STOP IT!_" Maggie screamed, standing and grabbing his arm. Napier stared at her, his eyes wide, breathing heavily, and then looked down at the table leg in his hand. With a clatter, he dropped the table-leg to the ground. Then he turned and looked at Maggie again. She stared up at him in sad disbelief, tears hinting at the edges of her blue eyes. "Please," she pleaded. "Just talk to her."

Napier stared at her, panting, then ran the back of his hand across his lips, wiping away the excited spittle that had leaked out of the corner of his mouth. He wet his lips and swallowed, then nodded and turned, wading through the broken glass towards the edge of the bar. He paused at the end of the bar, staring at the small flap-door, then lifted it and let himself out. Then he moved to the back door, took a deep breath, and let himself outside.

Maggie instantly turned to the counter, running a finger along the indent. Cobblepot picked up the torn pieces of the cloth and offered them to her, watching her. Maggie took them with a heavy sigh and dropped them behind the bar, just staring at the mess. Cobblepot wrung his hands, frowning worriedly.

"I'll get a new bar counter," he said. "And I'll replace all those bottles. And your… cloth." He nodded towards the ripped cloth, then looked back at Maggie, who let out a heavy sigh and looked up at him.

"It's not worth it, Os," she said quietly, shaking her head. "This place… it's so full of unhappiness." She looked away again, at the shattered glass. "I don't think I can do this for much longer," she said quietly.

Even from the alley, Jeanette could hear the sounds of Jack's tantrum floating through the brick walls. She winced, silently apologizing to Maggie and Os for making them deal with it. That had been cowardly. In fact, she decided that she was done with being cowardly. She was done being _everything_. An ice queen, someone had called her once. Well, that was just fine. It kept things simple. She took the unlit cigarette out of her mouth and rolled it between her fingers. She didn't bother to look up when the door to the Lounge opened; she knew who it was.

"You ought to learn to control yourself better," she said, voice flat and emotionless. She knew very well that she was just provoking a beast and that Jack was as likely to turn on her as anything, but she was quite beyond caring. Besides, she would not be above a fist fight at this point, regardless of the outcome. She kept her eyes locked on the concrete wall across from her, then sighed and added, "So Maggie told you." It wasn't a question.

"I'm moving back to Italy, you know," she said after a moment's pause, throwing the cigarette into the nearby dumpster and finally looking at Jack for the first time. "When this is all over...my father's job, I mean. I'll move back there, probably with my family, if they'll have me after all...this." She averted her eyes, almost embarrassed, and the feeling made her defensive. "Don't you dare judge me. If I have to be my father's puppet, willingly or unwillingly, I'd rather do it in a place I can be happy."

Finally, she acknowledged the real issue at hand, saying, "I don't know why you even care if I turn out to be...pregnant." This _was_ a question; she eyed him analytically. "Why does it _matter_? This sort of thing has happened before." She sighed, one hand drifting unconsciously to her stomach. She looked at Jack again, some sadness in her expression. "It would just get in the way. Of _everything_. You know that. I can't deal with something like this."

Napier pushed open the back door of the Lounge and looked outside, feeling the dank breeze on his face. At first, he saw nothing, and considered going back inside to wait for Jeanette. Then he noticed someone standing against the wall of the alley. Figuring it could not be anyone else, Napier entered the alley, letting the door close quietly behind him. He was still in a state of shock from hearing the news, and his docile numbness was dangerously paper-thin, but he walked as if in a trance, not really sure of where he was going. All he knew was that a few steps away was the woman that he had to confront about something he hoped he would never have to face again.

He stopped a few feet from Jeanette, his legs growing heavy and stiff as he listened to her speak. He could not take another step. Then he took a deep breath and forced himself forward, until he was standing right in front of her. His jaw locked, and he swallowed, just staring at her, his dark eyes searching her face. He looked down at his hands, which were still shaking slightly, and wet his lips. "Jeanette…" he said, his voice hoarse. He balled his hands into fists, then shoved them in his pockets to keep them from shaking and just stared at his feet for a long, silent moment.

Napier had no idea what he was going to say to her. No words were coming to mind, nothing that would ease the shock, or the pain, or the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He twitched, taking short, ragged breaths, then looked up at her, his expression dark, his nose pressed flat in a feral snarl. His hands instantly shot from his pockets to her arms, pinning her to the side of the alley, his face less than an inch from hers, staring into her eyes. His shoulders shuddered as he tried to keep himself from shaking, and his breathing was staggered.

"Why didn't you tell me?!" he demanded through clenched teeth. He jerked towards her, bowing his head for a moment as he tried to catch his breath, then looked back into her face. "Why didn't you _say_ something? I deserved to know!" He breathed heavily, pushing her against the wall of the alley. "You were just going to get rid of it and never tell me!" he exclaimed, letting go of her. He turned away, running his hands through his dirty hair, and clenched his teeth, his face contorting into a grimace, but he held back his emotions, biting his lip until he tasted blood in his mouth.

Napier shook his head like a dog shaking water, letting out an animalistic noise of frustration. Then he turned back to her. "Do what you want," he said. "I…" He lifted a hand, then let it drop back to his side. He turned and started to walk away, then stopped and looked back at her. He stared at her, frowning, lost for words, and then shook his head. "We could have left this town forever, you know," he said. "Just you and me." He sniffed, looking away momentarily, then looked back at her, his eyes locking with hers. He wet his lips again. "I meant what I said, that time," he told her. "About leaving. I was ready to do it, too. I…"

He looked up at her again, and his throat went dry. She really was, as Cobblepot had said, an exceptionally beautiful woman. He swallowed, his expression softening slightly as he stared at her, lost as for what to say. He started to turn away again, paused, then turned back to her one last time, staring her straight in the eyes. "I could have loved you, you know," he said, his voice hoarse. Then he turned away from her again, putting his hands back in his pockets, and walked away.


	71. Chapter Seventy

The city had seemed quiet, so Wayne had turned in early for the night, which meant that he could wake up earlier than usual this morning. He opened his eyes and sat up with a yawn, stretching and cracking his back, then stood and checked his alarm clock. It was ten in the morning, which was early for Wayne, who did not usually wake up until after noon. He checked his Rolex, making sure the clock was telling the right time, then shrugged, moving to get showered and dressed. Today was the day he was going to have to break the hearts of the Sweets siblings.

After showering, he dried off, moving back into his bedroom. Alfred had left a platter by his bed with his breakfast, and Wayne picked up his cup of coffee and took a sip as he crossed to his dresser and pulled out a pair of underwear and a pair of socks. He set the coffee down, sitting on his bed to pull them on, then moved to his closet and opened it, looking through all his different business suits. He finally picked one out and closed the closet, pulling the outfit off the hanger and slipping into it. He took a deep breath, admiring his reflection in the standing mirror, then, picking up his breakfast platter, he started downstairs.

Alfred was sitting at the dining-room table, reading a book, when he heard Wayne coming down the stairs and instantly looked up. "Good morning, Master Wayne," he said, not even bothering to remove his reading glasses. "You're up early."

"You knew I was up," Wayne said, indicating the platter. He set it down a few seats down from Alfred and sat down, starting to eat as Alfred returned to his book. "Good book?" Wayne asked, bringing a cut of his eggs to his mouth.

"Oh, very good, Sir," Alfred agreed. "I can't seem to put it down." He smiled up at Wayne. "I feel like I can really connect to the protagonist," he said. Then he went back to reading once more, seemingly engrossed in the novel.

Wayne nodded, taking another sip of coffee. "What is it called?" he asked, taking another bit of eggs.

Alfred paused, checking the cover, then answered, "Lolita."

Wayne choked on his eggs.

Alfred looked up from his book, eyebrows raised, and glanced over at Wayne. Wayne cleared his throat, trying to swallow, his eyes watering, and looked over at Alfred, who looked surprised. "Are you all right, Master Wayne?" he asked.

Wayne nodded, waving his hand for Alfred to disregard him, then coughed and shook his head. "I'm fine," he assured Alfred. He cleared his throat, standing from the table. "Tell you what," he said, picking up his napkin and wiping his mouth with it, "I'm, uh… I'm gonna head out now." He dropped his napkin back to his plate and turned, heading towards the front doors of the manor.

"Mister Fox is waiting at Wayne Enterprises, Sir!" Alfred called after him. He waited until he heard the sound of the front doors shutting and the Lamborghini starting and leaving the driveway, then chuckled, removing his reading glasses, folding them up, tucking them into his breast pocket, and setting down his copy of Sherlock Holmes.

"Poor boy," he said, grinning to himself.

. . .

Fox drummed his fingers on the meeting-table, the phone sitting on front of him, and sighed. Wayne had called him from his cell phone to tell him that he was on his way to Wayne Enterprises, and Fox had gotten everything ready. He had provided a copy of the merger, a printout of the stocks report for both Wayne Enterprises and Sweets, Inc., and a paper with major points that Wayne should cover in his explanation to the Sweets, and now all there was to do was wait.

Fox looked up when the doors of the meeting-room opened and Wayne came in, looking flustered. "Hey," he said, out of breath. "Hope I'm not too late."

"Since they aren't expecting a call at all," Fox pointed out with a slight smile, "I don't think your timing is going to be the issue, Mister Wayne."

Wayne sat down at the table, and Fox pushed the phone towards him. Wayne picked up the papers, dialling the Sweets' home number, and started perusing the stocks reports, holding the phone with his shoulder as he flipped through the pages. His brow furrowed as he looked over the stocks. "Wow, were we really this bad off when WayneTech broke off?" he asked in a low voice, showing Fox the paper.

Fox raised his eyebrows. "You'd be surprised how much a department that _doesn't technically exist_ will effect your company," he said, humoured.

Wayne let out a breath, looking at the paper with all the important points, and then perked up when someone answered on the other side of the line. "Uh, yes, hello," he said, "this is Bruce Wayne, of Wayne Enterprises. I, uh, had a meeting with Mister and Missus—er, sorry, Miss Sweet…" He winced, grimacing at his mistake, then went on, "Yes, Miss Sweet. Jenna. And, uh, Noah. I had a meeting with them a few days ago to discuss the merging of our companies. Can you put me through to one of them?" He paused, then added, "Preferably Noah?"

Fox nodded, folding his hands on his stomach as he leaned back in his swivel-chair, watching Wayne. Wayne glanced at him, then looked back at the papers again, taking a deep breath. The Sweets siblings had not seemed thrilled with the merger in the first place, aside from Noah's strange interest in certain aspects of Wayne Enterprises. He looked up, waiting for one of the siblings to get on the line. He hated cancelling business deals. It was like breaking up in a relationship. He looked back at the stocks and let out a sigh.

Hopefully breaking it off would not be _too_ painful.

. . .

"Julio!" Napier pounded on the door of the little apartment, resting his head against the shabby wood finish. "Julio, please, I need you to answer the door. It's serious."

Napier heard the sound of the bolts on the door unlocking, and he moved back in time to see the door open a crack and Julio's minute form appear in the sliver, looking out at him, frowning. "What d'you want, man?" he asked, sounding irritated. "You come back for more drugs or something?" He reached behind him, picking up a bag of marijuana, and slipped it through the opening into Napier's surprised hands. "There," he said, apathetic. "Now go home."

Julio made to shut the door again, but Napier stopped him, pushing his hand into the opening. "Wait," he said. "I really need a friend's support right now."

Julio shrugged. "Sounds like a personal problem," he answered. He went to shut the door again, but again Napier stopped him. Julio looked out at him, peeved. "Look, man, I'm fuckin' busy—" he started to say, but Napier cut him off.

"Please, Julio," he said, sounding desperate. He glanced at the bag of marijuana in his hand, then wet his lips, taking a breath. "She's pregnant," he said. He dropped the hand he was holding the marijuana in and let out a sigh. "Jeanette," he specified. "Jeanette's pregnant."

Julio sniffed, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah?" he asked, unimpressed. "So?"

Napier paused a moment, looking away and frowning, then said, "It's mine."

Julio paused, staring at Napier for a long moment. Then he sighed and stepped back, opening the door and indicating for Napier to come inside. "Come on in, _ese_," he said. Napier looked up, not sure if Julio was serious, but when he saw that he was, he moved past Julio into the house. Julio scrunched up his nose as Napier passed and closed the door behind him, frowning at the bigger man.

"You smell like a bar," Julio observed. "And you look hung over."

"I spent the night in a bar," Napier clarified. "And I _am_ hung over. Hopefully it'll go away soon." He stood in the middle of the hallway, putting his head in his hands, and let out a heavy breath. Julio came up and stood by him, his hands in his jacket pockets. He chewed absently at the inside of his cheek, his face almost impassive.

"You want some weed or something, man?" he asked. "I got some painkillers if you want. Over-the-counter shit."

"You got any cocaine?" Napier asked, rubbing his sweaty hands on the back of his slacks and looking around the apartment. "I really think I need it right about now…"

"You're lucky, man," Julio said, pulling a baggie of white powder tied up with a rubber band from his jacket pocket. "Got some in yesterday, and some Guido just about cleaned me out almost instantly."

"You remember his name?" Napier snatched the baggie of cocaine from Julio's hand, turning towards the tiny living-room. He sat down on the couch and looked up at Julio. "It wasn't _Rossini_, was it?"

"No, man," Julio shook his head. "It was like… Macaroni, or something. I don't pay much attention to names." He started towards the living-room, then turned and went into the bathroom, pulling open a drawer and taking out a few things, then shut the drawer and moved into the living-room, sitting down on the ratty couch beside Napier. He set down a mirror that had one of the corners broken off in front of Napier, and beside it, a razor and a cut-off straw. "Just in case you didn't bring your own," he said.

Instantly, Napier knelt down on the floor in front of the setup, pushing back a swatch of hair from his eyes as he started to get to work. Julio observed him intently, his brow furrowing slightly as he watched the kind of mechanical desperation with which Napier was operating.

"So you're gonna be a daddy," Julio said, returning to the issue at hand.

Napier nodded. "Yes, I am," he said with a sigh.

Julio folded his arms, leaning back on the couch. "Again," he added. "With a different woman. Who you aren't married to." He paused for effect. "While your wife is still alive," he finished.

"Hey," Napier countered, looking up at Julio, affronted, "in my defence, I was drunk." He removed the miniature rubber-band and shook the baggie, pushing the powder to the bottom before he opened it. He pulled open the little plastic bag and turned it upside-down, spilling all the cocaine onto the mirror in front of him. Then he picked up the razor Julio had provided.

"You're always fuckin' drunk, man," Julio scoffed. "Like, if I had a dollar for every time you got trashed, I'd be able to buy myself a citizenship. Rosa, too."

"Now, that's not true," Napier said, frowning darkly. "I'm getting better. I joined AA a while back, and I was sober for a good eight months. And then I was sober for five years after that." He gingerly separated off a part of the powder in front of him and arranged it in a thin line, making sure the sides were perfectly straight. Then he picked up the cut-off straw and leaned over the mirror, holding his hand over his nose, and moved up the line, inhaling it vigorously.

"Dude, the loony bin don't count," Julio frowned. "And plus, you probably pulled some kind of, like, pain medication plea for your face or something, man, I dunno. Vicodin or something. That shit's potent."

Napier looked up, his eyelids fluttering, and let out a deep breath, sniffing and running his hand under his nose. He wet his lips and looked over at Julio, pausing a moment to collect his thoughts before picking up the razor again, dividing off another portion of the white powder, and starting to line it up. "They wouldn't let me have painkillers," he answered, monotone, his focus more on the cocaine than on the conversation. "They thought it would cause some kind of rebound, or… something."

"Repercussion," Julio corrected him.

Napier did the line, then sat back and nodded, letting out another long sigh. "Yeah," he said. He cleared his throat, then looked up at Julio. "That's a big word," he commented.

"Yeah, man," Julio said, sarcastic. "I graduated second grade with flying colours." He shook his head, watching as Napier started to set up another line of cocaine. "Naw," he answered. "I hang around Warren White's people. It's one of those words that people like that toss around a lot. Like… _consequences_. That's another big word I learned from those mugs."

Napier stared at the opposite wall for a long moment, then wet his lips, swallowed, and leaned in again, pushing more cocaine into a long line on the mirror. He picked up the cut-off straw and covered his nose with his other hand, inhaling the powder. He cleared his throat, shaking his head, and picked up the razor, pushing the last of the cocaine into form, and then picked up the straw and snorted again, going over the line twice, making sure he did not miss anything the first time. Julio watched him, fidgeting, until he could not take it anymore.

"Tell her to get, like, an abortion or something, _ese_," Julio said, unfolding his hands and holding them out in front of him, palms-up. "You can't take care of a fuckin' kid, you know that, man. And god knows what kind of whacked-out schedule someone who let you in their pants has got."

"I can't do that," Napier said, pushing himself back from the table and up onto the couch. He sniffed again, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, and looked over at Julio with sad, red-rimmed eyes. "I mean, you should've seen the way she _looked_ at me when I said I told Kitty to get an abortion. It was like…" He looked away, frowning, thinking. "Like she had never seen anyone so despicable in her life. Like she couldn't believe that someone like me could even _exist_." His frown deepened. "It was like she… _knew_, that I would tell her to get one, too," he added, his voice distant.

"Wait a minute," Julio said. "You told your _wife_ to get an abortion?"

Napier nodded, looking away. "We couldn't take care of a child, Julio," he said, somewhat defensive. "I mean, she could have put the child up for adoption, but… we couldn't afford to pay for the pregnancy."

"So how _did_ you manage?" Julio asked.

Napier frowned, pausing, then looked back at Julio. "Y'know, I… don't know," he answered. "I never really thought about it. I just remember thinking how easy the whole thing was. I don't remember ever paying for… _anything._" His frown deepened, and he looked away again. "But that's not possible," he said in a low voice. "Unless…"

"Unless she put the kid up for adoption and didn't tell you," Julio finished his statement. "In which case, she doesn't belong to you, man. She belongs to whoever adopted her."

"But why would Kitty do that?" Napier asked, shaking his head. "I mean, it makes no sense. I'm her _husband!_ I'm… I'm the child's _father!_" He scoffed, starting to get angry. "She would have to go through me to even get those fucking papers signed – it's the _law!_"

"Maybe you signed 'em and don't remember," Julio suggested. "You told me you had a drinking problem back then. Maybe she got you to sign 'em when you were sloshed, 'cause she knew you wouldn't sign 'em otherwise."

"I was not an amiable drunk back then, Julio," Napier told him, putting his head in his hands. "If she'd asked me to sign papers putting our child up for adoption, I would have ripped them up. That baby was the most important thing in the world to me." He looked up at Julio again. "That was the reason I joined AA instead of killing myself."

"You got a fuckin' pattern here, man," Julio commented with a sigh. "Get drunk, attempt suicide, get high, bitch about it."

"If I had enough motivation to do it, I _would_ kill myself," Napier admitted. "But there's always _something_ holding me back. Some outside force has always stopped my suicide attempts." He held up a hand and started counting up on his fingers. "First, there was Kitty telling me she was pregnant. That stopped me the first time." He held up another finger. "Then, the second time, the medics came and dragged me off to Arkham. If they hadn't come, I would have bled to death. Not a satisfying death, but it would have done." He held up another finger. "Then I met you, and you made me realize that I could _do_ something with my anger, rather than just angsting about it for the rest of my miserable life."

He let his hand drop back into his lap, and he looked up at Julio again. "Three times," he said. He shook his head, looking away again with a sigh. "If anything else happens," he said, "I don't know if I would let any outside force stop me. I… can't take much more."

Napier paused a moment, his twitching hands fidgeting in his lap, then looked over at Julio. "Do you know who 'the Joker' is?" he asked.

Julio half-laughed and shrugged, folding his arms across his chest. "Sure I do," he answered. "He's this fuckin' hobo who bums drugs off me from time to time and bitches about his miserable love life." He raised an eyebrow, looking over at Napier. "Am I close?" he asked.

Napier shook his head. "No," he said, looking down at his hands. "The Joker is someone I… I've had in my head for a very, very long time. Since I was very young." He took a breath, wetting his lips. "When my father killed my mother," he said, "I ran away from home. I cut my arm and bled all over my bed, and my floor, and then I cleaned up my wound and slipped out the window. I left the knife there, though… the one with my blood on it." He looked away. "You're probably wondering what good that did," he said. "But it did exactly what I wanted it to do. A few days later, I saw a newspaper, and I picked it up to read it… it said 'Napier Tried For Murder, Found Guilty', and underneath it, it said, 'John Napier Murders Wife and Young Son – Son's Body Still Missing'."

A slight, odd grin came to one side of his marred mouth. "For all purposes, I was dead," he said, shaking his head slowly. "And that was just fine with me." He folded his hands together to get them to stop twitching, and cleared his throat, wetting his lips. "I was only nine years old at the time, and that was the first time I knew the joy of twisted victory. Of course, someone found me and put me in a foster home, where I would play pranks on the other children, horrid pranks… and the owner called me 'little Joker'." He frowned slightly. "I liked the name," he said. "So I took it. That was the only thing I took with me from that place… I ran away from there when I was fifteen."

Napier bit his lip, thinking. "I found some backstreet ID maker, and got an ID, saying I was eighteen," he went on. "Then, three years later, when I really _was_ eighteen, I went to the government to have it updated, to get one that said I was twenty-one. Of course, they saw that I was registered as 'Jack Napier', but no one gave me a second thought. I guess they must have thought that there was more than one 'Napier' family in Gotham, or that little Jack had been dead for so long that it was impossible that he would resurface nine years later just to get an ID."

He chuckled slightly at the thought, shaking his head. "But he did," he said. "He got his shiny new ID and went to drink his sorrows away, just like his daddy before him. He crawled inside a bottle, and, for three years, he stayed there, looking out at the world from behind a sheet of glass, accepting free drinks from strangers whenever he could get them." He closed his eyes, putting his head in his hands again. "I never thought about suicide back then," he told Julio. "For three years, the only thing I could think of was where my next drink was coming from. I'd lost track of time. Then, one day, when I went to the bar and showed the barkeeper my ID, he smiled at me and said, 'Happy birthday, son.'" His odd half-grin returned. "It was my twenty-first birthday," he said. "And all I could think of was how glad I was that my drinks were on the house."

Napier let out a deep breath, looking up at the opposite wall, resting his chin in his hands. "And that's when I saw Kitty," he said. "She was there with her college friends. They wanted to show her the _club experience_, or some shit like that… she came and sat at the bar, and she just looked so sad… the bartender asked for her ID, and she just shook her head. She was only nineteen at the time," he added, looking over at Julio. "She would turn twenty that September. She wasn't wearing anything fancy, like you'd expect a girl to wear to a club, but… maybe that was what interested me most about her. And then she looked at me…"

He took a sharp breath, as if remembering the euphoria of the moment all over again. "It was love at first sight. You've heard about it in the movies, I'm sure, but… this was real." He rubbed his temples with two fingers. "She looked at me, and I had no idea what to say to her… so I just raised my glass and toasted her. Then I told her, 'It's my birthday'. And she asked, 'Where's the party?'" He chuckled, folding his hands in his lap. "I told her, 'Right here. This is the party. With you, that makes two people attending.'" He shook his head, wetting his lips. "We exchanged names and numbers, and I could hear her friends pestering her about it all the way out. And then I…"

Napier held up his hands in half-hearted surrender. "I drank until I passed out," he admitted. "The next day, I went on my first date with Kitty, and… well, the rest is history."

"You met in a bar," Julio commented, monotone. "How romantic."

"You don't have to judge me like that," Napier shot back. "At least my marriage wasn't _arranged_."

"Hey, _ese,_" Julio retorted, "Rosa was _hot_ back then. Arranged marriage was just fine with me." He unfolded his arms, resting his hands on his knees, and took a deep breath, looking over at Napier. "So what are you gonna do about it, man?" he asked. "About your girlfriend, I mean. You gonna tell her to keep it, and be a responsible father? Or are you gonna tell her to get rid of it?"

Napier ran his tongue across the inside of his cheek and folded his arms, leaning back on the couch. "Or I could kill her," he said.

Julio raised his eyebrows, nodding accordingly. "You could," he agreed. "Or you could, like… _not_ kill her." He shrugged. "Whatever works best for you," he added.

Napier sighed, drumming his fingers on his strong bicep and staring straight ahead, then looked over at Julio. "Did that Guido clean you out of everything?" he asked.

Julio made a face, thinking, then shook his head. "Nah, man," he said. "Just coke. I still got, like… meth, and smack, some X, and a little speed. Lots of pot, too."

"I'll take it," Napier answered curtly.

"What – _all_ of it?!" Julio exclaimed, sitting up straight. He shook his head vehemently. "No way, no fuckin' way," he said. "That's too much shit, _ese_. I can't just be givin' out free shit like candy. I can give you some of it, but not all of it." He caught his breath, hoping he had not said too much, but his family's welfare rested on him selling those drugs, and he would barely break even if Napier were to take them from him. He folded his hands, staring at Napier, waiting with bated breath for his answer.

Napier frowned, considering, and took a deep breath. "Reasonable enough," he answered. He looked over at Julio. "I'll take the heroin, then," he said. "And the LSD." He paused a moment, sniffing, then added, "Do you have a hypodermic needle? I didn't have one last time. Also, I need a lighter."

"Sure, man," Julio answered, sarcastic. "You need a spoon, too? Or you think you can manage that one?"

"I'm sure I can find a spoon," Napier answered, unamused.

Julio shrugged and dug into his pockets, pulling out a few packets of yellow powder that had been carefully rubber-banded together and tossed them onto the coffee-table on top of the broken mirror, then pulled a few neatly folded and sticker-shut squares of wax paper from his jacket pocket and set them down on the table as well.

Napier picked up all the drugs and stuck them in the pocket of his slacks, not looking at Julio as he did so. "Thanks," he said shortly. Then he cleared his throat, looking away again. "Can I smoke a joint before I head out?" he asked.

"You wanna smoke a joint?" Julio asked, raising an eyebrow. "You still got a hangover?"

"Yes, I do," Napier put in, almost too curtly, looking over at Julio again. He wet his lips, taking a deep breath, and looked away again. "It can be low-quality," he added. "I… I just need something." He closed his eyes. "I just can't get her face out of my head," he said in a low voice.

"Who, man?" Julio asked. "Your wife?"

Napier shook his head. "No," he said. "Jeanette." He put a hand to his face, massaging his closed eyes and then pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Can I have a joint?" he asked, his voice almost a groan.

Julio nodded. "Sure, man, sure," he said, getting up. He moved into the hallway and disappeared into one of the bedrooms. He came out a few moments later with a small bag of weed and a square of paper. He sat down next to Napier on the ratty couch and set out the paper in front of him, then opened the bag and lined up the marijuana on the square before rolling it up and folding the ends. He handed it to Napier, who took it and put it in his mouth, then pulled a lighter from his pocket and lit the joint for him. He extinguished the flame, paused, and then handed the lighter to Napier. "Here you go," he said. "You can keep that. And…" he reached into his pocket and retrieved a hypodermic needle, holding it out to Napier. "This, too."

Napier took the needle, nodding to Julio, then brought the joint to his lips and took a long hit. He brought it away from his lips, waited a few seconds, then let out the thick, greenish smoke with a slight cough. "Thanks," he said, glancing over at Julio. He took a deep breath, let it out, then brought the joint back to his lips and took another hit. "You know," he said, letting the smoke seep from his nose this time, "I should have known this would happen. I really should have. But I was just too _stupid_ to do anything about it."

"Hey, man," Julio said, shrugging and folding his hands together. "It's not your fault, _ese_. I mean… it takes two, right?"

"This wasn't supposed to happen," Napier said, shaking his head. He took another hit of the joint, held in the smoke, then let it seep out from between his lips. "We were supposed to be _business partners_. This kind of thing doesn't happen between business partners."

"Pft," Julio chuckled. "You've obviously never watched The Secretary."

Napier took another long drag on the joint, then stood from the couch and let out the smoke in a quick huff. "I'm gonna head out," he said, starting for the door of the apartment. In the hallway, he paused, considering the joint, wondering whether he had had enough, then took one last hit and tossed the roach into the toilet-bowl. He held it in for a long moment, coughing slightly, then let out the smoke as he reached the door. Then he stopped again, staring down at his hand on the door handle. "Oh, Julio," he said, looking up at the little Mexican man, who had gotten up as well and was standing at the end of the narrow hallway. "Listen, I, um… what I said, back there…"

Julio held up a hand. "It's okay, _ese_," he assured him. He offered him a reassuring smile. "Man, you were stressed the fuck out. It's understandable. I probably would've done the same thing." He shrugged. "We're cool," he told him.

Napier stared at him for a long moment, trying to figure out if Julio was being sarcastic, but then, sensing no sarcasm in his tone, he smiled faintly, too. "Yeah?" he asked. He glanced away, then looked back at Julio. "Thanks," he said. Then he turned to the door again, opened it, and let himself out, closing the door quietly behind him.


	72. Chapter SeventyOne

Jeanette re-entered the Lounge with eyes completely bloodshot, but dry. She had been justified in everything that she had done, and they both knew it; Jack was just being his usual arrogant self and refusing to accept it. She was not going to care about this. She _did_ not. It didn't matter. Jack was some fling, just like _everyone_ else she'd seen in the last five years or so. She'd get rid of the kid...fetus, rather, and get on with her life. And move back to Italy.

That was still a shaky thought, though; she couldn't imagine continuing to live with her family, after the last ten years. She'd run away from home, for Christ's sake. There wasn't a chance that they'd let her just walk back into their lives as if nothing had happened.

She went over to the dumpster and took the knife out of her pocket, holding it over the pile of trash for a moment, then paused, considering it. Maybe there was another way out of all this. But she shook her head and counted ten breaths before dropping the knife into the trash. She'd been raised better than that.

She sighed and paused at the counter, looking Os in the eye without so much as a blink of hesitation. "Do you have Warren White's number?" she asked, completely emotionless. She was going to finish this. Not for Benito's sake, but for her own sanity. She wouldn't be herself again, she figured, until every mobster in this city had a bullet through his head. Maybe then she could just rest.

Cobblepot looked up from righting whatever he could in the Lounge, a little flustered, and moved to Jeanette, brushing off the front of his tuxedo. "Uh, well, my dear," he said, frowning slightly. He glanced over his shoulder, then reached for his mobile, and then stopped, looking back at Jeanette. "That's an odd request," he said. He paused for a moment, then shook his head. "Well, it's none of my business, really," he said, retrieving his mobile from his pocket. "I shouldn't have even commented…"

He started scrolling through the contacts list, clicking his tongue as he went, then frowned. "I know I have it somewhere," he said, putting his phone back in his pocket. He turned to Maggie. "Magpie, darling," he said, "could you go get my little black book, please?"

"Don't bother." Selina came up and sat beside Jeanette at the bar, pulling her box of cigarettes from her purse and knocking one out for herself. She turned to Jeanette, starting to offer her one, and then drew back her hand, making a somewhat mocking face of remembering. "Oh no wait," she said, her voice cold. "You _can't._" She slipped her box of cigarettes back into her purse, pulled out her lighter, and lit her own cigarette, taking a drag of it and blowing out the smoke before putting the lighter back and turning to Jeanette again.

"Yes," she answered before the other woman could ask. "I know. And I followed dear _Jacky_ here, as you can probably tell." She squared her shoulders, turning to look at the deep indent in the bar top a few seats down from her, and the notably missing stool-top next to hers. "Such a charming guy," she added, taking another drag of her cigarette.

She looked away, exhaling smoke. "I take it you saw this morning's paper," Selina commented, staring at her freshly-painted nails. "Not that you needed to. You probably already knew everything that Hale reporter had to say, all that about Jack being a pathetic piece of work…" She scoffed and shrugged, looking away from her nails. "I'm fuckin' thirsty," she commented, frowning slightly. She looked up at Maggie. "Get me a glass of water, would you, Maggie?" she asked, an edge to her voice. "Be a doll."

Maggie stared at Selina, then looked back at the wreckage of broken bottles behind her. Then she turned back to Selina with a peeved expression. "Sorry, Selina, _dear_," she said, her voice biting. "We seem to be fresh out."

Selina frowned at Maggie, then looked her up and down. "Have you put on weight?" she asked.

Maggie hesitated, a bit taken aback, then smiled bitterly. "Well, Selina," she answered in a patient tone, "unlike you, some of us _eat_."

Selina raised her eyebrows. "Yeah," she answered. "I can tell."

"What are you doing here anyways?" Maggie asked sharply, frowning and putting her hands on her hips. "We don't owe Warren anything, and where you are, there's usually that sleazy creep."

"Well, I can't see as she's harming anyone just yet," Cobblepot put in.

"Maybe you should be listening to your _boyfriend_, Maggie," Selina said coldly, slitting her eyes at Maggie.

"Though I've been wrong before," Cobblepot added to Maggie under his breath.

Selina turned back to Jeanette. "Listen, honey," she said. "You don't need to go looking for Warren. I'll take you right to him." She shrugged, bringing the cigarette back to her lips. "We'll trade greasy boyfriends for a while," she said, taking a drag. She exhaled the smoke through her nose, then asked, "Sound reasonable?"

Jeanette threw her arms out wide, just barely angered by Kyle's rudeness; she already knew the woman was more of a bitch than _she_ was, what else was new. She smiled widely. "What do I care?" she said, shrugging and standing up. She leaned one elbow against the counter and rolled her eyes, saying, "It's not like I _own_ him. And boyfriend is hardly the word I'd use for it." She eyed Selina for a moment, then added with raised eyebrows, "I wouldn't think you would, either."

Then her smile widened just a fraction as Selina's offer finally connected in her brain. This would make everything so much easier, if she could just find White and talk to him. Her _negotiation_ tactics had seemed to work well enough last time, even if she'd been interrupted before she'd gotten any actual information out of him. Who knew, maybe this time the little cockroach would bother her so much that she'd skip _negotiations_ and go straight to threats.

The thought was a happy one, and any irritation she had felt towards Selina disappeared. "The favor might be one-sided," she admitted, trying to keep the other woman cordial at least. "Jack's run off for a bit. But I'm sure he'll be back soon enough." And Jeanette really thought he would; they seemed to have developed an odd sort of ritual. Jack would get drunk, he'd come after her, she'd beat some sense into him, and then they'd cry about it. And repeat. He was probably off at a bar right now, getting drunk and high and god only knew what else.

But none of that would get Selina to tell her where White was, so she waved her hand and repeated, "He'll be back soon. Trade, then?" She grinned.

She'd never know it herself, but her grin was beginning to be tainted with just a hint of madness.

Selina frowned at Jeanette's animated reaction to her, and moved the slightest bit away from the other woman. She looked Jeanette up and down, thrown. She had accepted her offer far too easily. There had to be more to it than just that. "What?" she asked, totally forgetting about the smoking cigarette held between her slender fingers. She blinked, taken aback, then looked away, her mouth hanging open, and wet her lips, raising her eyebrows. "Um…" She closed her mouth, shaking her head slightly, then looked back at Jeanette. "All right. It's a deal, then."

She stared at her smouldering cigarette, thinking, then took a deep breath. "Sorry I mistook your… _relationship_, with Jack," she said, her voice cynical. She looked back at Jeanette. "It's just… you seem to like each other well enough," she explained. "I assumed you had something… going on." She looked away, taking a drag of her cigarette, then raised her eyebrows, exhaling the smoke. "At least, _he_ seems to think you have something going on," she added.

"Even if they did, it's none of your business, Selina," Maggie said, putting a hand on her hip. "We don't ask you about your personal life with White."

Selina scoffed. "You don't have to," she answered. "It's his favourite topic of discussion." She looked back over at Jeanette, pursing her lips, considering what to say as she looked the woman up and down again. She had to give it to Napier, he did not have bad taste in women. Then she locked eyes with Jeanette again and raised her eyebrows. "He wouldn't stop mentioning you," Selina said, hoping to sting Jeanette, even the slightest bit. "All night long, it was Jeanette, this, and Jeanette, that."

"That's called an obsession, not a relationship," Jeanette replied to Selina's description of Jack's behavior. She couldn't believe he'd discussed her in front of that..._whore_.

"We don't need to know about Jack's pillow-talk," Cobblepot put in, trying to cut the conversation short. "Can we change the subject? It's impolite to talk about a person when they're not here." His eyes went to Jeanette, hoping to see her expression, but he found it hard to read. She seemed to be forcing an expression on her face that was not entirely natural.

"Jack's not a person," Selina breathed, letting smoke seep from her nose.

Cobblepot frowned slightly, taking a drag of his own cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray and looking up at the three women again. "I'm, um…" He cleared his throat and indicated towards the back of the Lounge. "I'm going to the gentleman's room," he said. He cleared his throat, looking between all the women, then turned and walked away towards the back room.

Maggie watched him leave, then turned back to Selina, putting her other hand on her hips. "Os is too nice to say it," she told Selina, "but you're not exactly welcome here, Selina. You've caused nothing but trouble since the first time you set foot in here."

Selina scoffed and glanced at the deep indent in the bar-top, then at the broken furniture behind her, then back at Maggie. "I don't think I'm the one causing the trouble around here," she answered, incredulous.

"If you hadn't been such a _prostitute_ and just left Jack alone, none of this would have happened!" Maggie shot back. "Can't you see that you're the one who caused this whole ordeal?"

"I didn't kill his wife," Selina countered. "I didn't knock up his girlfriend."

"That's it!" Maggie exclaimed. "I'm going to tell Os to have you banned from here--!"

"Maggie, please," Selina cut over her with a venomous slickness, "it's so unattractive when a heavy gal shouts."

Jeanette watched as Kyle got more and more rude to Maggie. Finally, she'd had enough, and she moved forward until she was looking Selina in the eye with a cool, angry stare. "I don't mind if you insult me, sweetie," she said quietly, "but leave Maggie alone. I know you get off on going after people who have done nothing to you, but..." She sighed and backed away after a moment. There was no point to this; Selina wasn't going to stop being the irritating bitch that she always was because of something _Jeanette_ said.

So she turned to Maggie with a big smile and commented, "You know, if you ever need a bouncer when Tally's not around...I'm available." She turned back to Kyle. "Now where's White?"

Maggie stood, shocked, staring at Selina, but before she could retaliate, Selina turned to Jeanette. "Listen," she said, "this isn't the best place to discuss something like this. Meet me at Warren's casino and we'll continue this discussion." She took a deep drag on her cigarette, looking away, then blew out the smoke. "Well, I guess Jack is just a liar," she said in an airy tone. She shrugged, looking back at Jeanette. "From the way he talked, I thought maybe you two had something special."

Selina took one last drag on her cigarette, then stubbed it out in the ashtray, looking back at Jeanette. "Oh," she added. "If you want to… _get rid of it_, on the down-low, I know this guy in the Narrows who's real good with that kind of thing. Real hush-hush. I can take you to him, if you want." She shrugged. "Worked for me," she added.

Jeanette's expression tightened and her eyes were hard as flint. "Get rid of _what_?" she asked, obviously not wanting an answer. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I'll be taking any advice from you any time soon."

"I think you know _what_," Selina answered, countering Jeanette's icy tone. Then she shrugged. "Unless, of course, Jack was lying about that, too," she added. "It wouldn't be the first time."

Maggie tried to smile at Jeanette's offer, but her smile was sad, and soon faded. "That's all right, dear," she said. "Tally hasn't let us down yet. And you've got…" She glanced at Selina, then looked back at Jeanette. "Well, you've got more important things to worry about," she said. She paused, then inhaled sharply, realizing her mistake. "Like your job," she quickly added, hoping to remedy her error.

"Job," Selina muttered. "Right." She took a deep inhale, then looked back at Jeanette, raising her eyebrows. "Fine, then, don't take my advice," she answered. "We'll just agree to not get along. I mean, it's not like I'm trying to take Jack from you. You can have him." She looked away again. "You two deserve each other," she added in an undertone.

"No one _deserves_ Jack," Maggie countered. "And no one deserves _you_. But the two of you are on two different planes."

"Maggie," Selina took a deep, mockingly distressed breath, thought for a moment, then closed her mouth. "You know what," she said, "I'm not going to bother arguing with you. I'll just take your words out of context and take that as a compliment."

She smirked at Maggie, then looked back at Jeanette. "White's at his casino," she answered. "Last I heard, he was sitting around, reading the paper. There's a pretty good article on today's front page, and you know me… I'm not usually much of a reader." She quirked an eyebrow. "But I already mentioned that, didn't I?" she asked. "About the paper, not about my reading habits… or lack thereof." She shrugged. "Either way, you should take a look at it," she added. "You might find it… informational, to say the least."

"I've seen that article," Cobblepot cut back into the conversation, sliding onto a bar stool. He tossed down a newspaper in front of the women and pointed to it with his lit cigarette. "Rubbish," he stated. "That two-bit hack Thomas Hale has finally cracked. The man is completely mad. Going from one end of the spectrum to the other in such a short time…" He looked up at Jeanette. "I think it may be time for dear Thomas to be locked away," he said with a sigh. "Oh, speaking of which…" He checked the clock on the wall of the Lounge. "Yes, it is time for me to head out. Have to go visit an old friend."

"And which old friend might this be?" Selina asked. "Not White, I hope."

"No, no, Selina, dear," Cobblepot chuckled, "I said _friend_." He turned to Maggie, putting his hand over hers, and said, "Take care of the Lounge while I'm away, all right, luv? I'll be back in a jiffy. Just have to get the rest of the story. Get this dreadful ordeal over with." He turned to Jeanette, took a deep breath, then said, "Good luck to you, my dear." He offered her a quick, tight smile, then turned and headed for the doors of the Lounge.

Selina watched him, then turned back to Jeanette. "I can take you to White now, if you want," she said. "I don't know what his schedule for today is gonna look like, so I can't assure you you'll be able to catch him a little later on, but… he doesn't usually leave his casino, unless it's to go to the ring." She rolled her eyes. "He loves that fucking dog-fighting," she muttered.

"And you don't?" Maggie asked. "I would have thought you would like anything that Warren likes."

Selina grinned. "I like _money,_ honey," she told Maggie. "That's about the only place where he and I agree. But it's enough of a middle ground for us to walk on without pushing each other off." Then she turned to Jeanette once more. "He's definitely there now, and he'll definitely be there tonight. At the casino, that is. And if you need me, just ask anyone around there… unless, of course, I'm with Jack."

She frowned at the thought. "You know," she added airily, "once you get past the fact that he has a big dick, he's nothing to write home about. Sure, he's got a great body, and a real nice face, but…" She shrugged. "He's just another Joe," she said with a sigh. She looked over at Jeanette again. "I don't know why you let him, of all people, knock you up," she said. Then she covered her mouth with a false air of accidence. "Whoops," she said. "I mean, he _didn't_, _did_ he?"

Selina grinned at Jeanette, then looked away again. "Well, I won't judge you," she said, staring at her stubbed-out cigarette in the ashtray. "But unless there's anything else you need to know, I really should be getting on my way. Don't want Jack getting _too_ hammered at…" She checked the clock on the wall. "Noon," she said. She pursed her lips, then took a deep breath. "Don't worry," she said. "In the end, no matter what I do, he'll come running back to you, begging you to take him back, begging to be your baby's father…"

She looked at Jeanette, a cruel glint in her eyes. "The question is," she said, "will you take him back… _again?_"

Jeanette, sick and tired of hearing about this stupid paper article, snatched it from the counter and folded it. She turned to Selina. "I'm sure I can find my own way to that wretched casino," she told the woman, stepping towards the door to the Lounge. Then she caught the end of Selina's sentence, and turned with an inhuman fury buried just beneath an icy exterior. "You know, it really _is_ none of your business," she told the other woman quietly, glancing at Maggie. It would be no good to start a fight here. "You ought to learn to keep your opinions to yourself. Wouldn't want anything to happen to you."

With that last threat, she walked out of the bar with the morning newspaper clutched in her hand, headed towards White's casino.

. . .

Maria stood, mouth hanging open in horror, in front of the burned-down lot where the old AA meeting spot had been. She stuffed her hands in the deep pockets of her jacket, still trying to make herself register what she was seeing.

She'd been here just a week ago...no, it had been _less_ than a week when she'd seen Crane and her father here. When she'd had a panic attack, and Gerald Crane had taken her to the hospital. When everything had changed..._again_.

Suddenly, she thought of Gerald, and wondered what had happened to him. Last she knew, he'd been ready to call the police about his son, to turn him in. From what Gordon said, he'd never done so. Now she wondered again why. She had no idea what had happened to the man after he left the hospital...and now that she thought about it, something awful could have happened. She _liked_ Gerald, too; he was a nice guy who just got caught up with the wrong people.

So now she was worried. She pulled out her cell phone to give Gordon a call and ask about the burned-down building, but quiet footsteps coming up behind her stopped her cold. She reached for the pepper spray in her bag, but a tired voice spoke up before she could reach it. "Well, I wasn't really looking for a _great_ greeting after last night, but...Still."

Thomas stood awkwardly behind her, wincing at the tiny bottle now in her hand as she refused to put it away. "I didn't even know you were going to be here, I swear," he promised, holding up his empty hands in a sign of apology. "I just wanted to see why..." He sighed and pushed a hand nervously through his hair. Okay, time to come clean: he _had_ half-hoped Maria would be here, by some twisted piece of fate. He hadn't exactly expected it to happen, of course. But, then again, all bets were off in Gotham. Everything was connected _somehow_.

Which reminded him of what he'd needed to say to her. "I wanted to see why Dr. Crane wanted me to change the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting to another venue and time." Maria raised her eyebrows, but he put up a hand. "I'm not helping him. He threatened me," he explained, sounding pathetically whiny. "It's not like I _asked_ for this all to be dumped on my plate. This is what I was going to tell you before, when you wouldn't listen." His tone turned accusatory, and Maria's head, which had been bowed in thought, snapped up. Her eyes were narrowed.

"You think _you're_ the only one who's dealing with this shit?" she asked, wanting to punch the other man, though she hardly knew him. "You're not the one who was _stalked_ by this guy during his first week of freedom, and _you're_ not the one whose psychotic dad is..." She stopped herself there, remembering exactly who Thomas was. Just this morning, she'd seen an article in the paper about Jack Napier, better known as the Joker, who was a pathetic drunk with no real talent. Obviously, Hale wasn't above low blows.

She tried again, more calmly this time. "I'm sorry you're involved. Really. This whole fiasco is awful, and everyone knows it." There. That was better. "But if you knew what was best for you, you'd just stop getting involved. Now. No more stories about the Joker, no more working with Crane...just go to the police and tell Officer Gordon..."

"I'd be arrested."

The anger was back. "Why the hell would they..."

"Maria, do you _read_ my articles?" Thomas asked, eyes suddenly burning. There wasn't a chance he was simply being arrogant; it was a real question. "They're all pro-Joker. And, as you could probably guess, general Gotham sentiment right now isn't pro-Joker." He took a breath, and admitted, "I was arrested, Maria. I still don't know why. Some cop came to my house and took me down to the station..."

Maria let him think for a moment; he seemed like he had more to say. After a minute, he looked over at the burned-down building. "I'm supposed to let everyone in the AA group know that the meeting time has been changed," he told her, refusing to meet her eye. "Crane told me to. He'll..." He gulped, a ripple of fear running down his back. "He'll kill me, Maria. You know," he said, nodding, pointing halfheartedly at her, "you know exactly what kind of a person he is. He'll do it." He looked away again, slowing his breathing down to normal. "I don't want to die. If playing along means that I don't die..." He shrugged.

"You coward," Maria spat, barely a whisper, glaring at Thomas. "You're not going to do _anything_?" She stared at him for a moment, but he said nothing, so her hands dropped back to her sides. "Fine. Do nothing. Let people die." He looked ready to argue, so she cut him off, "You _know_ that's what will happen." He couldn't deny it; she gritted her teeth. "Well, _I'm_ going to tell Gordon about this." she said, turning away to go back to her car.

She hadn't known exactly how involved Thomas was, but from what he'd said...She shook her head, fishing her keys out of her pocket with a shaking hand. No matter how much sympathy she had for his situation, she would _not_ feel bad for a man who would do nothing to help other people.

Thomas watched her go. She was right. She was _completely_ right about everything...including his cowardice. He flipped his phone open and dialed Eddie's number.

. . .

Eddie was reading the paper, scanning the Classifieds for any odd jobs that he could apply to do. He scratched behind his ear as he took a bite of cereal, flipping the page of the paper. His fingers were already black from looking, but there was no end of interesting advertisements in the Gotham paper – a good deal of which were of questionable legality. But as long as whoever put up the ads managed to slip them past the people at the newspaper with some kind of clever wording, they always somehow managed to make it into Eddie's paper.

He uncapped his highlighter and drew a square around an advertisement, when suddenly his cell phone started ringing, the mellow sound of Blind Melon's most famous hit filling the tiny kitchen. Eddie picked up his phone and checked the number, then frowned. He did not recognize the caller, but it was rude to just ignore a call when picking up was possible, so he pressed the Talk button. "Hello?" he said, sceptical. "This is Eddie Nigma. Who is this?" He listened for the name of the caller, then his expression relaxed. "Oh, Thomas," he said, relieved.

Eddie stared at the paper in front of him, remembering the events of the night previous. "Listen, Thomas," he said, "thanks for calling me, I really appreciate it. But I already got the update. Gerald called me and told me when and where the new meeting is, so I'm good." He drew a box around another advertisement. "Maybe you should try calling someone else, like Chuck Daly. He might not have gotten the word yet." He licked his thumb and turned the page of his paper, scanning the ads. "Oh, and thanks for telling Maria, I totally forgot," he added with a chuckle. "Well, I guess I'll see you at the meeting, then!" And with that, he hung up on Thomas.

Perhaps he had been a bit curt with the man, as hard as he tried to be amiable, but he had, in a way, cut Eddie's date with Maria short, so Eddie still had a bit of a bitter taste in his mouth about the man. Add to that Thomas' most recent article, which Eddie had considered quite a low blow, even to someone like the Joker, Eddie was not especially fond of this Thomas character. But Eddie was never one to hold a grudge, so he had tried to push all that aside. He picked up his highlighter up and drew another square around an ad, then capped his highlighter and grabbed his car keys, leaving his cell phone sitting on his kitchen table.

"I'm going to the store, Evelyn," he called. "Be back in a little bit!"

. . .

Gordon pulled up to the police station and got out of the car, taking the morning's paper with him, folded up in his hand. He shut the door and locked the car, then started up the steps to the station. As he passed the young officer at the front desk, the man grinned at him and held up a greasy copy of the front page. "Hey, Gordon," he said through a mouth of doughnut, "did you catch this morning's headline?"

"Yeah, I saw it," Gordon answered, hurried, holding up his own copy as he breezed past the officer. He moved to the double-doors at the back of the station and over to one of the holding cells, where Dent seemed to be asleep. Gordon rapped on the bars of the cell. "I know you're awake, Harvey," he said. He tossed the paper down in front of the bench where Dent was lying. "You know anything about this?"

Dent turned, setting his feet on the floor, and looked wearily up at Gordon. "You know me too well," he said.

"Only a guilty man sleeps," Gordon answered with a sombre nod.

Dent bent and picked up the paper. "So you think I'm innocent, do you, Gordon?" he asked.

"I didn't say that," Gordon replied. He nodded towards the paper. "Any idea what inspired this piece?"

Dent frowned and looked down at the paper in his hands. As he read over the article, his expression growing steadily darker. Finally, he looked up at Gordon. "Is this a bad joke?" he asked. "Thomas Hale doesn't write this kind of shit. He's all pro-Joker, anti-powers-that-be. He would never turn around and write something like this."

"That's what I can't figure out," Gordon said with a sigh. "I was just hoping you might be able to help."

Dent shrugged and held out the paper for Gordon to take. "Sorry," he answered, sitting back on his bench. "I can't do much of anything from behind these bars."

Gordon frowned, looking down at the paper, and flipped it open, shaking the pages straight, and turned the page to the announcements page. "Say, Dent," he said, "did you know about this Botany Convention that they're holding tomorrow at Wayne Enterprises?"

"Yes," Dent answered with a sigh. "I was supposed to speak at that."

"I didn't know you were into flowers, Dent," Gordon said, a glint of humour in his blue eyes.

Dent offered a sarcastic smirk. "They're doing medical research," he answered. "They were also supposed to have a big display of new botanical equipment, like a glass case that will keep a plant fresh for years, and a new shredder that's supposed to turn dead plants into a useable fuel." He shrugged. "They made a smaller model, and it won some kind of award, and so they've decided to make an industrial-sized one. They were going to unveil it at the Convention."

"That's really interesting," Gordon said, nodding, intrigued. He folded the newspaper and sighed, then checked his watch. "Well, we're supposed to have your friend Cobblepot here, and then we're going to determine whether or not we have sufficient evidence to hold you," he told Dent. "If things go well, you might get off free, as long as you do what you can to help us figure out who _really_ did it."

"Oh, thank you, Gordon," Dent said with a heavy breath. "You know I would never do anything like that, I'm just… I'm not like that."

"Well, I should like to think so," Gordon answered. "But you can never tell, in this town…"

Just then, the doors opened behind Gordon and a uniformed officer came in, leading Cobblepot, who looked a little thrown. The officer held the door for Cobblepot, then left, back into the front offices. Dent stood up and moved to the bars, holding onto them as he pressed his face between them, messing up his usually impeccable hair as he stared pleadingly at Cobblepot. "Os," he said. "Os, you know I didn't do it. Don't do this to me."

Cobblepot looked over at Gordon, who had folded his arms, tucking the newspaper under one arm. "You saw this morning's paper?" Cobblepot asked. He offered an odd, faint smile, then turned back to Dent. "I honestly don't think you would be stupid enough to leave the murder weapon and your most defining personal effect at the scene of the crime," he told him. He turned to Gordon. "Have the gun and coin been dusted for prints?" he asked.

"Yes," Gordon answered. "The only prints they had on them were Dent's."

"Which means the killer wore gloves…" Cobblepot began, but was cut off by Gordon.

"Or it was Dent," Gordon interrupted, curt. He frowned, nodding slightly to Cobblepot. "Your services have been very helpful, Mister Cobblepot," he said. "But unless there are any other questions you'd like to ask Dent, or any other helpful tidbits about the murder you might know, then you're free to go."

"I'd like to stay for a bit, if you don't mind," Cobblepot answered bluntly. He looked at Dent, inspecting him from head to toe, then turned back to Gordon. "Did you follow that lead I dropped for you yesterday?" he asked. "About the Mayor's assistant. He might know something."

"Shawn?" Dent was on his feet, his heart racing, and had crossed to the bars before either of the men outside the cell knew he was even listening. "No, no, Shawn doesn't know anything! – Os," Dent looked at him, pleading. "Don't make him bother Shawn, he… he had nothing to do with this!"

"How can we be so sure of that?" Gordon asked, looking at Dent with raised eyebrows. "I think it would be a good idea to bring in this 'Shawn' character." He looked back at Cobblepot. "What did you say his name was, again?" he asked.

"Palmer," Cobblepot answered. "Shawn Palmer, Mayor Garcia's assistant." He slipped his silver cigarette case from his breast pocket and opened it. "Smoking is not permitted in here, correct?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at Gordon.

"It's strictly forbidden," Gordon answered sharply.

Cobblepot took a breath, then closed the case and put it back in his pocket, clearing his throat. "Well, then," he said. "I think I'll excuse myself, for the time, being." He started to move towards the double-doors, then turned back. "Oh, Officer," he said, raising a finger, "who did you say would be doing the interrogation of young Mister Palmer?"

"Rachel Dawes," Gordon answered, as if it were obvious. "She's the best we've got. She's sure to get whatever information we need out of him."

"Rachel?!" Dent exclaimed. He swooned, moving away from the bars and lying back down on the hard bench, his face in his hands. "Why?" he moaned.

The slightest hint of a smile touched the edges of Cobblepot's lips. Then he nodded to Gordon. "Well, then," he said, "if you'll excuse me, I'm just going to step outside for a smoke break, momentarily…"

"No, please, Os, you have to believe me," Dent was at the bars again, clenching them so tightly his knuckles were almost white. "You can't have them bring in Shawn, you can't have Rachel question him!" he exclaimed. He reached through the bars, reaching for Cobblepot, but he was already too far away. "Os!" Dent shouted. "OS, _PLEASE!_"

"Settle down, Dent!" Gordon shouted, striking Dent's arm sharply so he had to retrieve it. "If you're really innocent, like you say, then there shouldn't be any trouble having Rachel interrogate Mister Palmer."

Dent slumped back, staring mournfully at the double-doors, then collapsed into a sitting position on the bench and put his head in his hands, giving up.


	73. Chapter SeventyTwo

Gordon brought along Rodriguez, but no one else, when he entered Mayor Garcia's office. He flashed his badge, not wanting to have a confrontation with the mayor, whom he did not have an especially good working relationship with, and moved into the next office over, where he saw a young blond man sitting at his work desk. He only had to read the man's name tag to know who he was. "Shawn Palmer," he said, flashing his badge to the young assistant, "I'm Officer Gordon, and this is Detective Ramirez. We've come to take you in for questioning in the murders of Arnold Wesker and Grace Balin."

"You have the right to remain silent," Ramirez reminded him as she pulled a pair of handcuffs from her belt and clipped one end of them around Shawn's wrist. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."

"Now, before you ask," Gordon said, putting up a hand, "you did nothing wrong, son, and we don't suspect you of being guilty of anything. We simply need to take you in for questioning because Harvey Dent is suspected as being a prime suspect in the murders, and we have been informed that the two of you have been…" He paused, his moustache twitching, trying to think of how to say it. "You've been _seeing_ each other," he said.

"You will be taken down to the station and interrogated by Rachel Dawes," Ramirez reported, strictly-business. "You will tell us everything we need to know, and we will set you free. Only know that withholding important information in a murder case is a federal offence, and is punishable by law."

"There's no need to _scare_ the boy," Gordon told Ramirez. He offered Shawn an awkward, kindly smile, then said, "Come on, let's get you down to the station. The quicker we get this over with, the faster you can get back to work." He took the handcuffs from Ramirez and pulled Shawn after him, back through Garcia's office. "No need to worry, Adrian," he said, nodding to Garcia. "I just need to borrow Mister Palmer for about an hour or so. He'll be back in no time."

Shawn couldn't lie. He was _scared_.

Being dragged into the police station and hauled back to the interrogation rooms was _not_ on his to-do list for the day. His _actual_ list sat on his desk back at city hall, starting with getting a haircut at the cheapest local place he could find and ending with a big, very happily-written question mark. After all, he'd planned to go out to dinner with Harvey Dent (District Attorney; Shawn _had_ to add it after even the thought of the man's name) that night, and who knew what would happen after that?

But now things had been all switched around, which was stressful enough. He just _knew_ Garcia would be angry when he got back to the office - _if_ he got back, for Shawn's pessimism was forcing thoughts of spending the night in a holding cell, or maybe worse. But now he was involved in some sort of murder investigation? It was enough to make his forehead start perspiring.

There was an uncomfortable silence in the squad car on the way back to the police station. Ramirez kept throwing furtive, suspicious glances at Shawn in the back seat. Finally, they pulled up to the steps of the station and Gordon let Shawn out, leading him up the stairs, through the front room, and through the double-doors into the holding cells. As soon as Dent heard the doors opening, he got up from his bench, moving to the bars of his cell and peering through them.

"Shawn!" he exclaimed. "Shawn, listen, they've got the wrong guy, I didn't do anything, and you don't need to tell them _anything_ that doesn't have to do with what's going on _right now-!_"

"Quiet, Dent!" Ramirez called.

Gordon shook his head. "Don't listen to him, Shawn," he said. "You just tell us everything we need to know and I promise you'll both get out of here in good time." He led Shawn past the holding cells, until they arrived just outside the interrogation room. Gordon pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and unlocked the cuff from Shawn's wrist. He put a hand on the door handle, waited until the door buzzed, then opened the door and ushered Shawn inside the room. He gave him one last reassuring smile before shutting the door behind him.

Rachel Dawes looked up from where she was sitting at the heavy metal desk and stared at Shawn, looking him up and down. "Mister Palmer," she said, trying to hide a slightly cold tone in her voice. She offered a falsely amiable half-smile and indicated the seat across from her. "Won't you sit?" she asked. "Officer Gordon wanted me to ask you a few questions about your… _relationship_, with Harvey Dent." She cleared her throat, then raised her eyebrows, indicating the chair again.

"Please," she said, "sit down." A muscle twitched in her cheek. "I'm sure we have a _lot_ to talk about," she added.

Shawn swiped a hand across his forehead as soon as Gordon freed him from the handcuffs, and he smiled nervously at the woman seated behind the interrogation table.

Something about her frightened Shawn even more. Unless they were trying some sort of good-cop, bad-cop routine (which was wholly unnecessary, and Shawn would be the first to say it; he'd gladly help as much as he could without _any_ need for threats), there was no reason for this Dawes lady to be acting so cold towards him. In fact, it almost seemed like there was something about him personally that she hated. It wasn't the first time this had happened, of course, but it made Shawn feel guilty and uncomfortable all the same.

He could feel the stutter catch his tongue before he even opened his mouth. "S-sorry..." His first attempt sounded like a strangled duck. He gulped and tried again. "I'm s-sorry, but...what's all this ab-bout?" He tried to smile, only lifting the corners of his mouth nervously for a moment before crossing one leg over the other and toying with his hands nervously in his lap. "I don't see how Harvey could be convicted...I m-mean, he's the DA. I thought th-they were sort of untouchable by the law, or s-something, hah..." He chuckled once painfully.

He was quiet for a long, uncomfortable moment, then he forced another awkward laugh. "I m-m-mean, we were going on a d-_date_ tonight...This is..." He cleared his throat, then finished quietly and lamely, "...W-weird."

"A _date?!_" The words exploded out of Rachel's mouth before she could stop them. She paused, looking away, then took a deep breath and cleared her throat. "I'm sorry, Mister… uh, Palmer," she said, looking back at him and trying to keep a cool head. She tried to offer a smile, but it was cold and curt, and she soon dropped it. "I know this seems sudden, but really, no one expects murder. Least of all when it's friends of a friend… and you're just lying in bed, innocently… doing nothing, and then the _entire police force_ comes in…"

She glanced over towards the two-way mirror, frowning, then sat down across from Shawn, folding her hands in front of her. "Look, Mister Palmer – Shawn," she corrected herself. "I'm going to level with you. I don't much like you. And it has nothing to do with this investigation." She clenched her teeth, having said too much already, and raised her eyebrows. "But that's neither here nor there," she said. "All we need from you is to attest to Mister Dent's good character…" Then she frowned at him. "You were going on a _date_ with Harvey?" she asked again, totally distracted.

Rachel pushed her chair away from the table and got up, folding her arms across her chest and starting to pace the floor. "Two-faced rat bastard," she hissed. She glanced over at Shawn again, then brought her thumbnail to her mouth and bit down on it, concentrating hard on not exploding on him. It was not his fault, after all, that Harvey had been playing them both. She took her thumb from her mouth and folded her arms tightly, tapping her foot, then turned back to Shawn, sitting down again. "Um… how would you describe Harvey's temperament?" she asked. "Would you say he was irritable? Do you think he could have possibly actually _committed_ these murders?"

She folded her hands together, fiddling, pursing her lips, staring at Shawn. It was not his fault, she had to keep telling herself. She had to stay professional. "Where were you the night of the murders?" she asked, her professional tone starting to waver. It was not his fault. It was _not_ his fault. Then again, this little prick had somehow managed to insert himself between herself and Harvey, and just looking at him made her skin crawl. She drummed her fingers on the table, then stood again, going back to her nervous pacing. To think she had been touched intimately by the same hands that had touched this _man_ in the same way…!

Suddenly, she stopped pacing, frozen. Not just hands, but…

Instantly, Rachel turned on Shawn, moving back to the table and leaning on it. "Did you kiss him?" she demanded. "Did you? Did you have…" She looked away, letting out a breath, then looked back and asked in a low hiss, "Did you have _sex_ with him?" She folded her arms, staring down at him in disdain. "Harvey… and I," she said, "have been… _together_… for _months._" She looked towards the two-way mirror again, then back at Shawn, accusing. "He asked me to _marry_ him!" she spat.

Nearly in tears for the first time in almost ten years (publicly, at least), Shawn shrank back in his seat. The expression "hell hath no fury like a woman scorned" had never applied so well. He didn't want to answer any of this woman's questions - especially the ones of a more personal nature - but he wasn't sure if he had a choice now. His guilt was confusing him, and he was already terrified about being involved in this investigation, not to mention unsure what it was all _about_...

All he knew was that his one wish right now was to _get away_ from Rachel Dawes.

"I didn't e-even...I mean, I didn't _know_," he explained desperately, holding out his hands and trying to smile - the result was his expression flipping schizophrenically between a manic smile and fear. "I swear...I _swear_ I would never have..." He gulped. "I wouldn't have d-d-done _anything_...if I'd have known..."

She put a hand to her forehead. "How long have _you_ been seeing him?" she asked. "Is… is there anyone _else_? I mean, how many of us is he _playing?_" She scoffed, turning away again. "I'm going to _kill_ him," she growled, pacing irritably. She moved over to the two-way mirror and rapped on it. "Gordon?" she called. "Gordon, this is a pointless interrogation. Mister Palmer had absolutely nothing to do with the murders. I _told_ you where Harvey was at the time of the murders – this is just ridiculous!" She glanced back at Shawn, then added, "And embarrassing."

Shawn looked away, towards the two-way mirror. "I...I have to agree, Mr..._Officer_ Gordon. I...I don't kn-know anything that could help you. Swear on the Bible, you know," he said, staring at the floor. He could feel his face burning. If any of this got out, he'd be the laughingstock (not to mention the gossip point) for everyone who even remotely followed politics in Gotham. Heck, he could even lose his job! He rested his elbows on the table and cradled his head in his hands with a groan. "I'm sorry," he muttered.

Rachel moved back to the table in the middle of the room, slumping down in the chair, putting her head in her hand. Then she looked up at Shawn again and sighed. "Well," she said, "at least I know he wasn't lying when he said I was the only girl for him."

She folded her arms, glaring daggers at the man from across the room, and sighed. He really did not seem the type to do something malicious on purpose. She was sure the entire ordeal was Dent's fault. But still, there was something about Shawn that made her insides boil. She sighed, unfolding her arms and instead propping her hands on her hips, staring at Shawn. "Listen, Mister Palmer," she said, going to sit down across from him again.

Rachel folded her hands in front of her, considering her fingernails. She had no idea what she was going to say to this man. Then she looked up, locking eyes with him. "I love Harvey," she said. "But there are other fish in the sea, and I know more than a few who would be willing to take me, should this… _thing_, with Harvey fall through." She looked at her nails again, feeling an odd, sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. Then she heaved a sigh and looked up at Shawn again.

"It can't be like this," she said, shaking her head. "There can't be two of us. There can only be one." She swallowed. "We need to let Harvey choose," she finished, then closed her eyes, shaking her head and correcting herself, "We need to _make_ Harvey choose." She opened her eyes again, looking at Shawn once more. "We shouldn't have to fight over him. No man is worth fighting over because of his own infidelity. That's just…"

Rachel folded and unfolded her hands, drumming her fingernails on the table, and bit her lip, looking away. The door of the interrogation room buzzed open and Gordon stuck his head inside. "We got everything," he told her. "Nothing we could use, but… thank you for your time." He nodded to Shawn. "You, too, Mister Palmer," he said. "We'll drive you back to work, if you like. Mayor Garcia shouldn't be too upset if you head back soon." He smiled kindly at the two of them, holding the door open.

Rachel looked at Gordon, then back at Shawn, and took a deep, readying breath. "Let's get this thing done," she said, getting up from her seat.

Dent sat, hands folded in his lap, thumbs twiddling, in the front office of the station. He checked his watch, then went back to staring at the double-doors. At any moment, Rachel, Shawn and Gordon would emerge, and he would hear the verdict they had reached. One of the junior officers had already released him from his holding cell, but he was not free to go until he had Gordon's say-so. He sighed, glancing over his shoulder. He was judging the chances of being able to make a dash for the door of the station when suddenly, the double-doors opened and Rachel, Shawn and Gordon emerged.

Dent stood, smiling at Rachel and opening up his arms to her. "Rachel," he said, relieved. "You came to rescue me. Thank you so mu—"

It only took an instant before Rachel took two strides to Harvey, lifted a hand, and slapped him, hard, across the face. "How could you do this to me?!" Rachel demanded, tears running down her face. "How could you?! I thought you loved me, Harvey!"

Dent put a hand to his stinging cheek, taken aback. That was the last thing he had expected. He wet his lips, stuttered wordlessly for a moment, then frowned. "I _do_ love you, Rachel!" he exclaimed, trying to take her hands. Rachel pulled her hands out of his and turned away from him, sobbing, her face in her hands. Dent stared at her, then looked back at Shawn. "I was just mad at you," he said, taking her shoulders in his hands. "I love you. I wanted to marry you. But you never wanted to commit. There was always someone else, or something preventing you from being with me…"

"I just needed time to think!" Rachel exclaimed, tears running down her face.

"Well, you were taking too _long_, Rachel!" Dent replied. "I thought you were never going to give me an answer and we would just be in this state of relationship limbo forever! And then there was that whole incident where you broke up with me because of Batman…"

"So you went off and hooked up with a _man,_ Harvey?!" Rachel exclaimed, turning back to him. "Why did you do this?! To get back at me?!"

"Well, at first," Dent admitted. "But then…" He glanced back at Shawn. "But then I… realized that Shawn was actually a really good guy."

"A good guy?!" exclaimed Rachel, getting more upset by the moment. "Did you have sex with him, Harvey?!"

"No!" Dent exclaimed. Then he paused, wavering, his expression faltering. "Maybe," he answered. He hesitated again, then sighed. "All right, yes," he said. "I've had sex with him. But that doesn't change how I feel about you!"

"You had sex with him in the same bed you had sex with me…?!" Rachel stared at Dent, horrified. "You were having sex with a man in the bed you shared with the woman you wanted to be your wife?!"

"Well, when you put it that way…" Dent said, his voice low. Then he looked back at Rachel, taking her hands in his and staring intently into her face. "Rachel," he said, "I love you. I always have, and I always will."

Rachel stared at him, then looked back over at Shawn. "But how can I trust you, Harvey?" she asked, her eyes returning to Dent. "How do I know you won't run off with another woman, or… or even another man, for that matter?" Her expression of panic grew. "And how do I know you really love me?" she asked. "What if you're just saying this to my face, and once I leave, you go off with him and do… whatever it is you two do?" She bit her lip. "I don't want to have to live in doubt," she said. "You need to make a choice… right here, right now." She stared intently at him, her eyes boring into him. "What'll it be, Harvey?" she asked. "Me… or Shawn?"

Dent stared at her for a long moment, weighing his options. In his mind, it was obvious what his choice would be, but he did not want to leave Shawn with a bitter taste in his mouth about the DA. He glanced back at Shawn, then looked at Rachel, and then dug into his breast pocket until he found something. Pulling it out, he showed it to the two of them, revealing his lucky coin. "Heads, I go with Rachel," Dent said. "Tails, I go with Shawn."

"You're going to base your pick on a _coin flip,_ Harvey?" Rachel's stern expression darkened. "What kind of decision is that?" She scoffed, propping her hands on her hips. "You've been dating him for what, a week?" she asked. "You… you asked me to _marry_ you, for Christ's sake!"

Dent looked down at the coin, biting his lip, then back up at Shawn. Then he pocketed the coin. "Rachel," he said, turning back to Rachel and taking her hands in his again. "I am… _so_ sorry for this."

Rachel pulled her hands out of his again. "Come back when you grow up, Harvey," she said. She turned to Shawn, looked him up and down, then sighed. "I hear the Ocelot has a pretty good bar," she said. "Care to join me?" She looked glaringly at Dent again, then turned on her heel and started for the door

"So what's the verdict?" Gordon asked, moving up to stand beside Dent.

Dent sighed. "Well," he said, watching Rachel walk out of the police station, "it could've gone better."

Gordon nodded, tucking his hands in his pockets. He took a breath, then looked back at Dent. "You were dating _Garcia's assistant?_" he asked. "I mean, the man himself is an embarrassment to the system… he might as well parade around in pantaloons and fishnets, but…"

"The whole system is a bunch of fags, Gordon," Dent cut over him, annoyed. "You should know that by now." He shook his head, staring at the doors. "'Cause no matter what you do in this city, you're gonna get fucked in the ass."

"Charming," Gordon commented, looking away. He paused a moment. Then he looked back at Dent. "Well," he said, "I can't keep you here, legally, so… I guess you can go."

Dent glanced down at Gordon and scoffed. "Great," he said. He shook his head, folding his arms. "Great," he repeated, quieter.

. . .

If this kept up, before long, the entire goddamn underworld of Gotham would know about Jeanette's little _thing_ with Jack. Looking back on it, she couldn't believe things had spiraled so out of control. She'd approached him for a _business opportunity_, for chrissakes! And now she was, as Selina Kyle so kindly put it, knocked up. Not to mention cut off from her family's funds, on the run from the police who had more information about her than any other department in the _world_, and working (once again) for her father. She had to admit, this was the worst situation she'd been in in a long time.

Her steps slowed as she passed a coffee shop and saw her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes looked completely hollow, and her usually immaculate hair was stringly and dirty. She sighed and stepped inside. Sitting down at a booth, she took her hair out of its ponytail and redid it, pausing only when a waitress stopped by her table to order a black coffee.

Maybe she would be right to just move. Not back to Italy; she couldn't go there without first doing what Benito wanted her to, and without a doubt, that would just cause more trouble. She'd spent a short time in France and enjoyed it. Maybe...

But there was always that _maybe_. She couldn't be sure she could really leave, because there was something that kept drawing her back to Gotham. It was true, Gotham was a black hole; it sucked people in and tossed them around until they had nothing left, not even their dignity. Jeanette _refused_ to let that happen to her. But the only way to get out was to take the safest passage, to go the route she knew. And that meant humoring her father one last time.

She downed the cup of coffee and, after stepping into the bathroom to check her appearance once more, went straight to the casino. Inside, she stopped at the bar. To the woman behind, it, she asked, "Excuse me, have you seen Warren around?"

Rosa looked up from what she had been doing and stared at Jeanette for a long moment. "You are that girl from the few nights ago," she rasped, emotionless. She glanced over her shoulder, then looked at Jeanette again. "Señor White is down with his dogs," she said. "He has been down there for a while. He wants to make sure they are not stolen by Señor Joker." She shrugged. "He has been pretty – what is the word? – _stressed_, lately," she said. "But it is nothing that can not be fixed, I am sure," she added. She looked Jeanette up and down. "You are replacement girlfriend?" she asked.

"Jeanette!" White came up behind her, putting a hand on her back and sliding it down to just above her ass. He grinned, taking his cigar from his mouth and tapping the ashes onto the floor. "I'll take it from here, Rosa, if you don't mind," he said. He started to steer Jeanette away from the bar. "Now, before you ask, I got your name from Jack. He was a little, uh…" He made a subtle drinking motion with his hand, then shrugged. "Either way, I think it's a beautiful name, and I promise I'll treat it better than he did."

He put his cigar back in his mouth and puffed at it, considering his surroundings. "It's been a while since I've seen you around these parts," he commented. "What are you doing, visiting me in the middle of the day like this? I'm sure someone like you must have something better to do on such a beautiful day." He looked down at her, raising his eyebrows. "How is, uh… how is our mutual friend, Ozzie, doing?" he asked. An awkward half-smile quirked at the edge of his mouth as he tried to pull an amiable expression, but he failed, and looked away again.

White took his cigar from his mouth and took a deep breath, moving his hand a little further down Jeanette's back, then grinned over at Jeanette. "Sorry," he commented, putting his cigar back in his mouth, "my hand seems to have a mind of its own." He looked her up and down. "And very good taste," he added. He looked back at her, grinning wryly. "You know, we got pretty rudely interrupted the last time, if I'm remembering correctly," he told her. "Would you like to pick back up where we left off, or was there something you wanted to do first?"

He raised his eyebrows, his grin widening, then started to lead Jeanette towards the staircase at the back of the casino. "You know," he said as they reached the base of the staircase, "I've been thinking lately… about something that Jack said." He gave her a little indicative push, for her to go up the stairs first, and he followed closely behind her, so close he could speak into her ear in a low voice, so that no one else would overhear. "He told me that you were only interested in me because you wanted to kill me," White told her. He grabbed her arm and turned her to face him, staring at her.

"I would hate to think that it's true," he told her, his tone dangerous. "'Cause I was hopin' we could get to be real good friends – even business partners, of sorts." He took his cigar from between his teeth and blew out smoke, slitting his grey eyes at her. "So what's it gonna be, doll?" He held out a hand, palm-up. "I know you got a gun on you," he said. "Fork over your weapon, or I get the muscle to rip you apart."

_Replacement...girlfriend?_ Jeanette could have died laughing, but it wasn't the right time; White had shown up after all. She'd have to correct Rosa later, maybe when White was busy bleeding to death.

And here was the great man himself. Jeanette allowed herself to be toyed with, knowing all the while that it was going to pay off in the end...then White did something unexpected. Unexpected, mainly because it was the first intelligent thing she'd ever seen him do. He _threatened_ her. Normally, she wouldn't put up with it. She'd express her dislike of threats with one of her own, or with a bullet to the head of whoever had tried it. But now didn't seem to be the opportune time for it. And she'd almost expected something like this.

So, instead of being offended or even angry, she laughed. "_Kill_ you? I really don't get Jack sometimes...he _always_ has to be the clown. But if it makes you feel better..." She grabbed her handgun from its hiding place and handed it over, still trying to stifle her laughter. She continued, "Killing you is a far cry from what I came here to do. I'm actually here to talk business, if you'll believe it."

She took a look around, realizing that she didn't know who White allowed in his casino. "But maybe that's a conversation for behind closed doors. If you would...?" She raised her eyebrows, indicating that they needed to talk in private.

If all went well, she could settle her deal with Benito within the next few days, maybe even tonight. She might even take a leaf out of Jack's book while doing it; it would be the perfect irony, after all. And then she could leave, totally free of obligation from her father.

White puffed at his cigar, watching as Jeanette took her weapon out from where it had been concealed and handed it over to him. "Thanks for cooperating, doll," he said, a stiffness to his voice. He took the gun and tucked it into the back of his slacks, his eyes remaining on Jeanette the whole time. "I don't know about this clown business," he continued, still seeming a little wary. "Jack tells a good deal of truth when he's in his cups. A hell of a lot more than when he's not."

He shrugged, taking his cigar from his teeth and tapping the ashes from the end. "But that's neither here nor there," he said. "You came to talk business, and that's exactly what I wanted to talk, too. We'll leave Jack out of it, as well as any…" He patted his jacket where the gun was tucked into his belt. "…Other things, that might have come up," he added, raising his eyebrows. He put his cigar back into his mouth, pulling a key from his jacket pocket, and ushered Jeanette up the stairs, leading her to the same door the two had gone through the first time. He unlocked it, then opened it, holding it for her to go in first.

"Ladies first," he said.

He followed her inside the room, then closed and locked the door behind him. "Just so we won't be interrupted this time," he said with a sigh. He turned back to Jeanette, taking a breath. "Listen tight," he said. "You want something. I want something. We can help each other out." He moved across the room towards her, taking his cigar from his mouth and leaning over to take a deep breath of her scent. "Mmm," he commented. "That is some sexy perfume. What do you call that scent?" He grinned at her, then backed away, starting to pace slowly, his cigar smouldering in his hand.

"A little while ago, I approached our mutual friend Jack to do a job for me," he said. "He was, eh, three or four sheets to the wind, and refused. I kicked the bum out on his ass." He waved the hand holding the cigar in her general direction. "He probably came running to you after that," he said, dismissive. "I don't know how much he told you, but you'd do well to forget it. All that shit is null and void now." He paused in his pacing, considering his cigar, then turned to face Jeanette, crossing his arms.

"I got someone to do the job for me," he said. "They did good, but they only did half the work. I need someone to do the rest of the job, someone who's close to the person I want to…" He stopped mid-sentence, putting his cigar back in his mouth, and scowled. "It's a dirty job," he told her. "But I think we might could work something out." He shrugged, raising his eyebrows. "You do this job for me, and I do whatever it is you want me to do for you," he suggested. "I could make you disappear, if you wanted me to. Not dead, mind you, just… vanish into thin air. No one would ever find you." He chuckled sadistically. "Or I could get some musclehead to castrate Jack," he added. "If that's your fancy."

He looked over at her, puffing on his cigar. "But first I need to know what it is you want me to do for you," he said. "Before I go spilling all the details about what it is I want you to do… for me."

"A drunken man? Telling the truth?" Jeanette brushed off his paranoia with disdain. "Send it in to the papers. I'm sure it'd make a good story." She still couldn't believe how much trust White was putting in Jack. This guy needed to get his facts straight. Just because he knew the Joker as a fellow criminal didn't mean that he was more trustworthy than any common bum. And wasn't _that_ some twisted logic, that White would think that in the first place?

Jeanette smiled at herself. It almost seemed like she was concerned for White. Au, contraire.

She brushed her shoulder, curious. How the hell had some perfume lasted through the last few days...? "I think it's Dior," she said quietly, distracted. "Can't quite remember." For a moment, everything was back to normal; she was still at the Radisson, getting a massage and trying to plan what she was going to do with her latest commission...

Then she remembered where she was and who she was dealing with, and she sobered up quickly, putting on a business front. "Actually, he told me nothing," she admitted. It certainly wasn't good to have little information, but it was probably worse in this case to lie. "But you're right. We'll get to that later."

She crossed her arms. "As you probably know, the Rossini family used to _own_ Gotham. We were completely on top, until Meroni and a few of his friends took out our men here and took the city for himself." She paused. "Obviously, my father, Benito Rossini, didn't take that too well. In all honesty," she said with a secretive smile, "he wants me to kill you. Unfortunately, I'm not particularly interested in working for him any more."

Hopefully, her admittance would gain White's trust. If it didn't work, and worse came to worst, he'd have her, as he'd so beautifully put it, "ripped apart" by his thugs. And he had her gun. Well, she was in a bit too far now to worry. "Here's what I'm offering you. You're not the top dog right now; we both know that. Meroni, this Chechen fellow I've been hearing about, and maybe some others - I'm not as up-to-date on things in Gotham as you, I'm sure - are all vying for that spot. Along with you. And I'm willing to take your side." She smiled. "Call it a whim. I just can't think of a single thing that would make Benito angrier."

"So what do you say?" She put her hands out like a scale. "You get a one-up on the other bosses around here, no strings attached, and I get a bit of fun and revenge on my dear father," she said. On a whim, she added, "And, if you still don't believe me, why not tell me about that job of yours, and I'll see what I can do about it...?"

"I would, but somebody already beat me to the punch," White said with a sadistic chuckle. "Besides, it doesn't make for much of a story. He's just some Joe, either way. This city's full of nuts who think they're somethin' special." He shrugged, sitting down on the bed and inviting Jeanette to sit beside him. He took his cigar from his teeth and stared at her, intently. Then he took a deep breath and looked away.

"Smells nice," he said, in the same half-distracted tone. Then he said, "Well, whether he told you anything or not makes no difference. 'Cause the job's good an' done now, an' there ain't nothin' to be done about it." He chuckled again, putting his cigar back in his mouth and puffing on it. "Those dumb schmucks think they got the guy when they bagged Harvey Dent," he said, shaking his head. "But that guy's protected from on high by the fuckin' Prince of Darkness. They'll never be able to pin anything on him. Just so long as he keeps showin' his pretty face at all the events an' shoving money down the throats of orphans and the elderly, he's good for re-election."

Then he looked over at her in interest. "You mean Falcone, doll," he said, nodding at her. "Meroni's an upstart out lookin' for trouble. New face." He shrugged. "Looks like you're a little outta the loop, yourself," he said. "Been in the kitchen too long. Need to turn on the TV once in a while." He folded his arms, staring at the opposite wall, and raised his eyebrows. "The Rossinis. Yeah, I remember that time. Dark times, those were. Then your Don, whatever his name was… he was killed in some kind of spat, an' Carmine Falcone took over." He chewed on his cigar, thinking. "Then Wayne reappeared an' Falcone got bumped by that Crane suit, an' I took over," he finished.

White grinned over at her, almost seductively. "I'm the King of Gotham now, baby," he informed her. "An' if your daddy wants you to kill me, I guess that's the way it goes. But I'm glad you got some sense, 'cause otherwise I'd have to call in the boys to snap your pretty neck." He reached out a hand and brushed her slender neck with it. "And it is… _such_… a pretty neck," he added, wistfully. "I'd hate to waste it."

He took his cigar from his mouth, running his tongue along his lips as he stared at Jeanette, listening to her offer. "You know," he said, "now you mention it, I have been hearin' from that Chechen fellow a bit more than I'd like to. He's been pestering me for god knows how long about buying my dogs, but I always said no." He hissed in exasperated recall, then added, "I ain't sellin' my dogs to no thug who can't even speak proper fuckin' English. You know who else was interested in buyin' my dogs? You'll never guess." He grinned at her. "Jack," he said. "He made me a fuckin' tiny offer, but he definitely wanted in on the game." He frowned slightly, inspecting his cigar. "Any idea why that might be?" he asked.

White looked up at her again, staring at her, then put his cigar back between his teeth and sighed. "Though you do make an excellent point about Meroni," he said. "As much as I'd like to play him down an' write him off as just a wannabe, he is gaining power at a pretty unsettling rate. See, I figured out what he's doin', but I figured it out too late." He turned towards Jeanette. "Meroni's tryin' to get a cocaine monopoly," he said. "That's where the big money is, in the drugs. Now, I got me a drug dealer, that I usually buy my shit from, but last I heard, Meroni'd cleaned him out, too."

He took his cigar from his mouth and held out his hands in front of him, as if to show her what he was talking about. "He buys small, then teams up with Chechen to sell back for a huge percentage profit," he explained. "An' what fuckin' steams me is that the people who used to buy drugs from me are now buyin' drugs from him, 'cause he's sellin' cheaper. But I can't stand to go any lower. I refuse to sell out to a _Guido_." His grey eyes met her dark ones and he grinned. "No offense," he added. He let out a deep, agitated breath. "Just when I was gettin' rid of one competition," he grumbled.

White paused, then looked up at Jeanette again. "Here's what I want you to do for me, if you're really willing to work with me," he said. "See, a couple days ago, when our friend Jack refused to do the job I wanted him to do, I hired somebody else to do it." He raised his eyebrows, grinning. "Somebody nobody'd ever suspect," he said. "You know that big black guy, works at the Iceberg Lounge? Never says a word? Tally Mann, you know 'im, everyone does. Well, turns out he's a very good worker, where a good sum of money is involved."

He chuckled darkly and put his cigar back between his teeth. "He was lucky enough to have Dent forget his coin on the counter in the Lounge, and he snagged it. Then I had Selina break into Dent's place and take his weapon. Then, using Dent's weapon, Tally went to the hotel where Cobblepot's friends were staying, an'…" He held up his hand in an imitation of a gun and pointed it at the opposite wall. "BLAM! BLAM!" he exclaimed. He laughed, looking back at Jeanette. "Then he left, leavin' Dent's shit there for the cops to find," he finished. "Fuckin' Officer Gordon and the other dipshits who run that place instantly went and got Dent and locked him up in the slammer."

White looked over at her, puffing at his cigar. "Y'know, it's refreshing to not have to get someone trashed before I talk business with them," he commented. He moved towards Jeanette, grinning, and put a hand on her shoulder, hooking his fingers under the sleeve of her top, and started to move in towards her, when suddenly, there came a heavy, violent knock on the door of the room. White instantly jerked away from Jeanette, looking towards the door with an agitated frown. "Motherfuckin' WHAT?" he demanded.

"Señor White," Rosa's monotone rasp came through the door. "Señor Napier is here. He says he wants to talk to you."

White frowned. "What the hell?" he asked. "I wasn't expecting Jack. He's supposed to be out fuckin' Selina." He looked over at Jeanette, then put a hand on her thigh. "You stay right here, doll," he said. "I'll be back in no time flat. Gonna go see what he wants, then probably send 'im away." He raised his eyebrows, then added, "Unless you wanted to see him?" White paused, then, without waiting for her to answer, got up from his seat on the bed and moved to the door, unlocking it. "I'm comin', Rosa, I'm comin'," he said, and closed the door behind him.

Napier fidgeted, drumming his fingers on the bar top, looking around at the bar, which seemed oddly lifeless and empty. Then again, it was only about noon, and the place did not come alive until darkness fell. He glanced over his shoulder, scratching behind his ear, and then wet his lips and began drumming with the other hand. White came and sat beside him at the bar and opened his mouth to say something, then frowned, watching him. There was no mistaking it, the man was definitely high.

"I didn't realize cocaine was part of a healthful breakfast," White commented.

Napier turned towards him, a little surprised, then grinned and sniffed, shrugging. "At least it doesn't have any fucking talking animals trying to sell it to small children," he replied. "That's some scary shit. LSD scary."

"You get it from Meroni?" White instantly asked.

"What?" Napier asked.

"The cocaine," White said. "Did you get the cocaine from Meroni?"

Napier shook his head. "No," he answered. "I got it from _my_ drug dealer. He only had one packet left, which is lucky, 'cause Meroni did just about clean him out."

White frowned. If Napier had a personal drug dealer, that meant that he, White, had missed someone in his sweep. He would have to see if he could get the name of the dealer out of Napier later, but right now, he had more important things to worry about. "Well, listen," he said, "I got a really important client upstairs right now, so can we make this quick?"

Napier frowned slightly. "An important client?" he asked. "Still trying to get someone to do that goddamn job of yours?"

White shrugged. "More or less," he said.

Napier stared at him for a long moment, unimpressed, then nodded. "Fine," he said. He put his hands out on the counter, paused, then said, "I want to buy some absinthe. You seemed like the most likely person to have some." He looked up at White again. "Am I right?" he asked.

White's eyebrows instantly shot up. "Absinthe?" he asked. "Sure, I've got some." He turned towards Rosa, who ducked under the counter and pulled up a bottle, which she handed to White. He inspected the bottle, then looked up at Napier, displaying the label. "I warn you, this shit's a powerful hallucinogen," White tapped the bottle with one ringed ringer, watching Napier intently. "And I ain't talkin' fairies and unicorns, either."

"I think I can handle a little hallucinating," Napier told him, taking the bottle from White's hands. "I don't mean to sound cocky, but I'm not exactly a rookie, as far as drugs are concerned. I've taken plenty of hallucinogens in my day." He admired the bottle, noting the interesting green tint of the liquor inside. "If I can handle LSD and 'shrooms, I'm sure I can handle this."

White let out an unconvinced half-chuckle and shrugged, puffing at his cigar. "Suit yourself," he answered. He took the cigar from between his teeth and indicated the bottle in Napier's hands with it. "But just know, there's a reason this shit is illegal." He put the cigar back in his mouth. "Oh," he said. "Don't you want an absinthe spoon, to go with that?"

Napier looked up, interested. "You've got one?" he asked.

White grinned. "I sure do," he answered. "In fact, I think I got just the thing for you." He turned back to Rosa and nodded, and she bent under the counter and retrieved something, which she set on the bar top between the two men. Napier picked it up and inspected it. It did not look like a spoon at all, but more like a tool used for cutting and serving a cake, and there was an intricate design cut through the spoon, making it incapable of actually holding anything. Napier frowned and looked up at White, who was grinning at him knowingly.

"Like it?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. He pointed to the design. "I had it special-made," he explained. "See this? This is Gotham's skyline. There…" he tapped one spot on the carving, "…is Wayne Tower."

"Yeah, it's nice, but…" Napier shook his head, looking at the confusing piece of silverware, then looked up at White. "How does it… _work?_"

White paused, then chuckled and turned to Rosa. "Get me a nice absinthe glass and a bag of sugar cubes, would you?" he asked. Rosa nodded and turned away, pulling a glass out from behind all the other stacked tumblers and shot glasses and set it in front of White. It was a tulip-shaped glass with a short stem and a large bowl, unlike any glass Napier had ever seen in his life. Rosa then set down a bag of sugar cubes by the glass and a bottle of water by White's elbow.

White glanced over at the ensemble, then back at Napier with a knowing smirk. "Think you can figure it out?" he asked.

Napier studied the assortment of items, then nodded. "I think I can, yeah," he answered.

White's grin widened. "Good," he answered, nodding. He looked over at the group of items, then back at Napier and asked, "Anything else I can get for you?"

Napier pointed to the ensemble. "I'd like to buy all of that," he said. "Plus another absinthe glass, and…" He paused, then, setting down the absinthe spoon on the counter, he cleared his throat. "Do you have any Everclear?"

White's grin faded a bit, and a slightly confused expression crossed his face. "Everclear?" he asked, sceptical, taking his cigar from his mouth and tapping the ashes onto the floor. "What, are you trying to drink yourself to death? Drinking Everclear is like drinking fuckin' lighter fluid."

"I just want some Everclear," Napier answered, curt. He folded his hands, looking away, then looked back at White again. "And I'd like you to put it in an empty water bottle," he finished.

White stared at him for a long moment, then slitted his eyes, frowning. "You are one sick fuck," he told Napier.

Napier chuckled humourlessly and shook his head. "No," he said, "I'm just ahead of the curve." The smile vanished from his face and he stared at White, threatening. "Don't fuck with me, and it won't happen to you," he told him, his voice deadly serious.

White stared back at Napier, his cigar smouldering in his hand, then took a deep breath and looked over at Rosa. "Well, you heard the man," he said. "Get him a water bottle full of Everclear."

"But mark it," Napier added. "I want to be able to tell the bottles apart."

White watched Napier intently, his grey eyes slitted, all trace of humour gone from his expression. Then he slowly shook his head, stubbing out his cigar in one of the ashtrays on the counter. "Well," he said, wetting his dry lips, "at least I know it's not me you're targeting for this one." He smiled hesitantly up at Napier, almost pleading.

Napier returned a half-hearted smirk and shrugged. "Not this time," he answered. He glanced over at the ensemble of things on the bar counter, then took a breath. "You think I could get a box for that?" he asked. "It's a little much to carry out all in my arms. Also," he turned to White, "how much will all this run me?"

White raised his eyebrows. "Uh, nothing," he said, too quickly. He indicated the equipment with a sweep of his hand. "It's on the house," he said, looking back at Napier with a nervous chuckle.

Napier grinned at him as Rosa started packing up everything into a cardboard box marked with the Grey Goose vodka logo. "Smart man," he commented, then turned and picked up the box, getting up from his seat. He started towards the doors of the casino, then turned back to White. "You're safe from me," he told him. "But I'm not the only person who wants you dead. Don't expect me to protect you from _them._"

Napier let out a deep breath, then cleared his throat. "And now," he said, "I have a hot date with a woman I think you know." He grinned, strange and humourless. "I just hope she likes… dogs," he added. He locked eyes with White, swallowed, then turned and left the casino.

White took a deep breath, then turned and looked at Rosa. "Do you think he's lying?" he asked.

Rosa shrugged, then answered, "I doubt it."

White frowned, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "I sure as hell hope not," he said. "'Cause as much as I make fun of him, he's…" He looked up towards the doors, then back at Rosa. "I really think he has the potential to be extremely fucking dangerous." He looked away, drumming his fingers on the bar counter, then stood. "Well, I need to get back to Jeanette," he said. "She'll be wondering what's going on out here… she an' Jack are kinda… close." He raised an eyebrow at the thought, then turned and started towards the stairs at the back of the casino.

He paused outside the door to the room, then turned the knob and opened the door, letting himself in again. "Sorry about that," he said, locking the door. Then he held up a hand. "Before you ask," he said, "Jack was high off his ass an' looking for some high-proof liquor. I set him up and sent him on his way, so… we're alone now." He chuckled, raising his eyebrows, then added, "I think you may have driven him over the edge." He moved to her, sitting down on the bed beside her, then asked, reaching over and pushing her sleeve down off her shoulder.

"Now… where were we?" he asked with a grin.

Jeanette decided she had suffered one indignity too many. White had insulted her, played her, been completely obnoxious to her, and made assumptions about her one too many times. It made her long for the old days, when if someone had so much as looked at her too long he would have been dead within the week; no one messed with the oldest heiress of the Rossini family. If she'd had her gun, she would have shot him here and now. But even that didn't seem like enough. In fact, the only thing that would seem right at this point would be to let Jack at him...

But she shook her head. That was over with.

So when White returned to the room she simply narrowed her eyes at him, smiling dangerously. "Yes," she said quietly, "let's get back to the part where you hire someone to murder a colleague of mine's good friends." She observed him for a moment, then sniffed and stood up. "My apologies, Warren, but I don't think this 'partnership' is going to work out. You see, I live by certain principles, and most of them don't involve working with sleaze like yourself."

Her smile finally disappeared. "I don't know exactly what Jack told you when he was 'in his cups', as you so generously put it, but you may want to think more about it." She folded her arms. "You're not invincible. I'll be watching with a smile the day you find that out."

She smoothed out her dress with a flick of her wrist and unlocked the door, letting herself out. "And as hard as it may be to believe for a pig like _you_," she said, jabbing her finger in White's direction with disgust, "there's still loyalty in Gotham." With that, she slammed the door shut behind her and stormed downstairs.

Rosa was still at the counter, and Jeanette stopped by, rapping her knuckles on the bar for attention. "When he comes down, tell him I want my gun back by tomorrow," she demanded curtly and angrily. Without waiting to see if the woman agreed or not, Jeanette was gone, heading towards the front doors.

She stopped outside the casino, staring up at the dull gray sky beyond the Gotham skyline in confusion.

"There's still loyalty in Gotham"? Had she really said that? Since when had she _ever_ believed in loyalty's existence at all, much less in the one city that seemed doomed to be taken over by criminals and corrupt politicians alike? Loyalty wasn't an ideal she - or anyone in her family, or her business, or even her _social circle_ - put much stock in. It was "canis canem edit": dog eat dog. There was no room for close friendship, only working partners, and even those had to be kept at a distance.

And yet, Jeanette could name at least a handful of people who were certainly more than working partners: Os and Maggie were just the tip of the iceberg. It would be hypocritical of her to say that those involved in the business of murder could not - or rather, _should_ not - have friends.

It was too insane to believe, but...Jeanette had been pushed to believe crazier things than this. She'd been pushed to the other end of the spectrum. She was no longer the cold assassin she'd once been before she'd come to Gotham. Now, she was beginning to think like that insufferable vigilante the city loved so much. She really needed to think about this. But, as always, there was business to take care of first, and she caught the first cab she could find to get back to the Lounge.


	74. Chapter SeventyThree

Bard anxiously drummed his fingers on the reception desk, waiting for the elderly nurse to give him the room number for Kaitlyn. He had had to explain to her a dozen times that he was her boss, that he was a friend, and that he wanted to see her. The nurse had patiently explained that the last time a nurse had given a room number to someone claiming to be a patient's friend, that person had ended up being the Joker and the nurse had ended up dead. Bard then had to explain to the nurse that he was not the Joker, and she had finally conceded and started to look for the room number.

"Here you are, dear," she said, handing him a folded sticky note. Bard took the note from her hand and opened it, then nodded to her, still a little peeved, and turned away, the stuffed bear he had stolen from Dinah's collection dangling loosely from his grip as he made his way towards the room the nurse had told him. Dinah would not miss the bear, and he was sure it would be better to come bearing gifts than not, after he had not showed up the night earlier. He took a sip of coffee from his travel mug, frowning at every door number he passed. Then again, he had been busy with legitimate, related things, so he hoped his two underlings would not take it so hard.

Bard stopped in front of the door, took a deep breath, then opened the door and let himself in. "Hello, Creed," he said. "Look who came to see you!" He held up the bear in front of his face. "It's Mister Get-Well-Soon-Bear, hoping you'll…" He hesitated, then tossed the bear onto the bed at Kaitlyn's feet. "Forget it," he said. "You're not six." He sat himself down in one of the chairs in the room, adjusting his tie, and took another sip of coffee. Then he nodded to Robert. "Tassle," he said. "Good to see my people sticking together. Teamwork is always a plus."

He took another sip of coffee, eying the bear, hoping it was not one of Dinah's favourites, then cleared his throat. "I hope I didn't interrupt anything?" he asked, looking between the two of them. Then he shook his head. "This is more important," he said. He leaned back in his chair, looking between the two agents. "I'll give you some time off until your arm heals," he told Kaitlyn. "Call it a paid vacation. I'll just put Tassle here on the case. I'm sure he can crack it." He grinned at Robert. "He's a smart cookie," he said. "Always been one of my best."

Bard gave Robert an unenthused thumbs-up, then dropped his hand. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't come earlier," he said, his voice monotone, "but I was dealing with some legal stuff that came from this…" He indicated towards Kaitlyn, twisting his wrist as he tried to think of the word he was looking for. "_Incident_," he said. He took another sip of coffee, considered her for a moment, then swallowed. "I know it may seem abrupt, Creed," he said, "but I need you to tell me all about your experience with the Joker, and his…" He turned his head, trying to find the word, then shrugged. "Woman," he finished.

Robert glanced up, looking ready to attack Bard when he walked in the door, but Kaitlyn frowned at him before directing her attention at the bear Bard had thrown on her bed. She raised her eyebrows at it. "Dinah's, right?" she asked, setting it on the bedside table.

She couldn't let Bard just get away with this shit. He _always_ did this, acting like he was top of the fucking junk heap and that everyone underneath him ought to just suck up their own feelings and needs and cater to his. The guy got off on a power trip of his own measly position as director of their little organization. "Yeah, it _is_ nice to see some teamwork, isn't it?" she suggested snidely, looking him dead in the eye with a scowl. "You know what the word means, _sir_? Sure as hell not waiting a whole fucking night to see if one of your precious little _underlings_ even survived." She held up her hand, showing off the bandages. "I was _knifed_. That psychotic bitch took a _knife_ to me. The Joker himself threatened me, face to face, to hurt me. And you waltz in here a day after it happened like nothing..."

It was usually at this time that Robert - the perpetual peacemaker - insisted that she shut up and take it, but for once he was happy to see his friend so fiery. Maybe her recovery wouldn't be so difficult, after all. And it wasn't like Bard didn't deserve everything she said to him. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, with a defiant grin aimed at Bard.

"You let me go through all that, and your apology is a stupid stuffed _bear_." She paused, glaring at Bard, then let out a breath in a _whoosh_ of air. She'd finally run out of steam. Back to the investigation.

"God only knows what they were doing when I came in. I was responding to a report of domestic violence - I was told a woman in that apartment complex heard some yelling and sounds of conflict - but it sure didn't look that way when I came in." Her nose wrinkled up in disgust. "What kind of freak would actually get off on a psychopath like the _Joker_?" she muttered quietly, then shook her head. "Anyway, they were practically going at it on the floor. They'd both had knives at some point, and were sitting nearby. Joker approached me, the woman was still on the floor, he was talking, I got distracted. I was stupid. She got me with her knife."

She paused here with an embarrassed glance at Robert. She hadn't told him the full story yet, and hearing it like this, in front of Bard...But he merely smiled encouragingly at her with a shrug. They all made mistakes at some point. This one turned out to be more costly. It happened.

He looked back up at Bard. "Is that all you needed? Or..." As an afterthought, he glanced at Kaitlyn. "Do you remember what the woman looked like?"

"A bit," she said, eyes squinted as she thought. "Probably around five-nine, black sort of wavy hair up in a ponytail, brown eyes...Oh, she looked Italian. That olive skin tone and everything." She paused, frowning. "Actually, she looked more like a model than a criminal. It was weird."

Bard shrugged, looking at the bear as Kaitlyn tossed it aside. "No," he answered. Then, in a lower voice, "Well, not anymore." He looked back up at her as she began her barrage of verbal attacks, sipping coolly at his coffee as he listened, every so often nodding along with some point she made. He raised his eyebrows as she started to go into detail on the attack. "She knifed you?" he asked. "Not the Joker, but… the woman?" He frowned. "Well, that doesn't make any sense, but I'm not arguing… after all, you were the one who got attacked. Please, continue."

He set his coffee on the armrest of his chair, folding his hands in his lap as she went on, taking in the details of her story, as well as the expression of pure anger on her face. These two really had it in for him, and it was no question why; he had taken a lot longer than he should have to come, but in his defence, he had spoken to Gordon about the ordeal. And then after that… he had been away from Dinah for far too long, and she was lonely. The wound that Robert described had not sounded fatal, so Bard had decided that it would not be _too_ bad if he were to just visit her in the morning.

Turned out he was wrong. Neither of his underlings seemed very impressed with his actions, and he was in no position to argue. They were right, and he was wrong. But he would never admit it.

Bard cleared his throat, picking up his coffee again and taking another sip. "Yes, but it's a very _nice_ stuffed bear," he pointed out. He took a breath, then raised a curious eyebrow. "You say you walked in on the Joker having _sex_ with some woman, and you stayed to chat?" His other eyebrow moved up to meet the first. "First of all, no man likes to be interrupted before he climaxes. It's just common decency. And second of all, why didn't you just shoot them on sight? I mean, knife or no knife, they couldn't have been very prepared to jump up and fight when they were…" He made an awkward motion with his hands. "Busy," he said.

He took another sip of coffee and indicated towards Robert. "An excellent question, Tassle," he said. "That's why you're one of my best. Next time I'm giving out raises, remind me to give you one." He looked back at Kaitlyn in interest at her description. "A model, you say?" he asked, scratching his chin, his expression thoughtful. "Well, there can't be that many models running around with criminal records and weapons. All we have to do is look in the archives…"

His voice trailed off as he considered it. "We'll ask the local modelling agency," he said with a grin. "Dinah has friends there. She models for them sometimes. If you think we'll find her in their records…" He took another sip of coffee, then frowned. "Or we could look in the police records," he suggested. "Or…" He shrugged, then turned to Robert. "Any suggestions, Tassle?" he asked. "You're the brains of the organization. What do you have to say about it?"

Kaitlyn's jaw dropped instantly. "Oh, well, ex_cuse_ me for doing my job!" she exclaimed. A nurse popped her head in the door, having heard the shout, but disappeared at Kaitlyn's heated glare. "I thought we might actually want to know exactly how many people the Joker's killed, or exactly who this woman was. Sorry for not pulling the fucking trigger the second I saw them." She tried to get up, then realized there was still an IV stuck in her arm, so she settled back and crossed her arms, furious. "Maybe you should do a little more field work, Bard, before trying to tell the people who _really_ know this sort of stuff what to do."

Robert supposed he could have said something to warn Bard about Kaitlyn's temper, but he did have his reasons for staying silent with a small smile on his face. They'd been working as a team for the man for a few years now, and if he didn't know how quickly Fuse, of all people, heated up, then that was his own damn problem. It wasn't as if he'd been very polite to her, either. Not to mention she probably needed to blow some steam. Who cared if she was being juvenile about it? It was just her way.

So he waited until she was finished and then nodded, saying nothing more about it. "I'd scrap the model idea for now," he suggested, taking a seat on the end of the bed and ignoring Kaitlyn's glare. "There are attractive people out there who don't work for agencies; that seems like narrowing in too quickly on something. We should keep this broad." He bit the inside of his cheek and narrowed his eyes, thinking. "The criminal records should be first, and if she doesn't show up there, we can move on."

Then he frowned. "This is too strange, though. Why on earth would the Joker...?" He trailed off, deep in thought and assuming the other two would understand where he was going with this. Then he shook his head. "I just don't understand it."

He was silent for a few more moments, then finally he stood up and looked at Bard. "I'm going to go look into this," he said. He glanced at Kaitlyn, furrowing his eyebrows. "You picked up that Thomas Hale guy, right? And then there was the breakout from the police station..." Another layer added to this, he thought. "He probably knows more about the Joker than a good majority of the rest of us, just judging on those articles he's written for the Times. I'm going to go see if I can find him again and persuade him to help."

Kaitlyn frowned and shrugged, looking away as if insulted. "If you think you can get him to," she said sniffily. "He wasn't too cooperative with me."

Robert grinned as he opened the door, murmuring, "I can't imagine why," as he shut it behind him.

Kaitlyn was quiet for a minute, looking down at her useless hand, then glared back up at Bard. "Well?" she asked, clearly still hostile. "You've made your public appearance, now go back to Dinah, or wherever. Rob will take care of this." She waited a moment, then added, "Unless there was something else you had to say. Like...oh, I don't know...sorry?"

Bard held up his hands. "Whoa, whoa, tiger," he said with an nervous chuckle. "Hey, you did a good job. And you make an excellent point, the most important part of our job is collecting information." He picked up his coffee cup and took a sip. "But my first point still stands," he added. "You should've waited until they were done, if you wanted to take names and ask questions. No man likes to be interrupted just as he's about to climax." His eyes moved to Robert as he took another sip of coffee, and he nodded, pointing to him as he swallowed the liquid.

"See, now, _there_ is an idea," he said. "Forget the modelling agency and go straight for the criminal records. There can't be too many gorgeous criminals out there." He set his coffee cup down, thinking. Then he answered, "Well, I mean, every man has needs, right?" He shrugged, looking between the two agents. "Just because he wears makeup and blows things up doesn't mean he doesn't have a sex drive just like the rest of us… men." He grinned, picking up his coffee cup. "Isn't that right, Robert?" he asked. When his question was met with silence, he took an awkward sip of coffee, then cleared his throat. "Well, maybe some of us more than others," he added in a lower voice.

Bard set his coffee cup down again, folding his hands across his ribcage as Robert puzzled out where to go next. "Thomas Hale?" he asked, frowning slightly. He looked at Kaitlyn. "Don't tell me you think that guy's got anything to do with the Joker. He just writes that stuff to piss off the general public, and the GPD. He probably gets off on it. There's no basis of truth in anything he writes." His gaze returned to Robert. "I mean, did you see what he wrote today?" he asked. He turned as Robert left the room, calling after him, "Yeah, good luck with that!"

There was an uncomfortable, icy silence in the room, then Bard turned back and stared at Kaitlyn. He sipped at his coffee, then raised his eyebrows. "Oh, no, it's fine," he answered. "No need to apologize, really. I forgive you." He got up from his chair, taking his cup of coffee with him, and glanced at the bear by the side of her bed, hoping against hope he had not managed to pick out Dinah's favourite to bring as his sorry excuse for a get-well gift. He sighed, looking back at Kaitlyn, and said, "Well, I'm off to the Lounge. I'm going to see if I can't get a few answers out of the owners."

Bard took another sip of coffee, then turned to leave. He paused at the door, then turned back to Kaitlyn, his expression softer. "Hey, Creed," he said. "You know I only give you a hard time because I like you, right?" He paused. "Well, I don't _like_ you," he corrected himself. "But… you know." He shrugged. "You're like an annoying, hot-headed little sister I can kick around. And whose allowance I can dock at any given time." He smiled at her. "In all seriousness," he said, "get well soon, 'kay? 'Cause I'm gonna miss you around the office until you're back."

And with that, he left the hospital room.

. . .

Selina Kyle looked up as soon as she heard approaching footsteps coming towards where she waited at the edge of the underground dog ring. Duke paced in his cage, watching her with angry, hateful eyes, but he had given up barking at her, and was getting ready to lie down. Selina ignored the dog, watching as Napier descended the stairs, the heavy metal door closing behind him. She stepped out of the shadows, the patent leather of her new dominatrix-cat outfit making a dull squeaking noise when she moved. Napier paused at the bottom of the stairs, staring at her, and Selina frowned, a little put off.

"What's the matter?" she asked. "Didn't you want me to wear this?"

Napier looked her up and down, then grinned, an odd, somewhat forced smile. "Of course," he answered. "You know how much I love pussy… cats." His smile widened a bit as he moved towards her, pulling off her headpiece and tossing it aside as he pinned her against the side of the dog cage, kissing her vehemently. She kissed back, then pushed him away, breathless.

"You don't wait for introductions, do you?" she asked with a bit of a nervous chuckle.

"Talk is cheap," he answered, and pushed her back again.

Selina moaned, liplocked, past the point of arguing with him. She put her arms around his neck, pulling him passionately onto the ground, and paused for a breather to reach out and unbutton his shirt. He watched as she pushed it back over his shoulders, running her gloved hands over his strong biceps, then through his tangled hair. She pushed herself up towards him, her hungry lips meeting his, and moaned in pleasure as he pushed back against her, driving her into the dusty ground. She had never been a wild person, but there was something refreshing and exciting about the prospect of going all the way in a place other than a bed in Warren White's casino. Suddenly, Napier pulled the whip from Selina's belt and got up on his knees, unravelling it. Selina looked up at him, breathing heavily, her hair messy.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

Napier shrugged, inspecting the whip, and then leaned forward and kissed her again before moving down to her legs and starting to wrap them up in the whip. Selina's expression changed to one of surprised worry as she watched his strange ceremony.

"W-what are you doing, Jack?" Selina asked, a little more forceful, frowning.

Napier shrugged again, continuing to wrap her legs in the whip, then moved up to her torso, kissing her forcefully on the mouth before wrapping her arms to her sides. "What's the matter?" he asked, breathing heavily, pushing a swatch of hair out of his eyes. "Aren't you into bondage?"

"No," Selina answered truthfully. "And I didn't realize you were, either. That's a little freaky, Jack."

"Oh, no," the Joker chuckled gruffly. "It's not Jack." He looked up, his dark eyes locking with her blue ones, and he leaned forward, pressing his body against hers, and took a deep breath, then, licking his lips, squinted at her and said, "Yesterday, you told me you didn't believe my scars story. To make up another one, a little more believable." The edges of his mouth twitched, and then curved up slightly. "So, do you wanna know where I got these scars?" he asked.

He looked down, fiddling with the zipper at the V of the low cut of Selina's leather outfit, not really interested in the exposed cleavage. Then he looked back up at Selina, an odd look on his face. "Well, I'll tell you how I got my scars," he said. "Kitty, my wife, was eight… months… pregnant. She wanted me to stop working for these guys I'd fallen into business with – shady, drug-dealing types. But I couldn't do that… they were supplying me my daily fix. I couldn't live without that." His voice got low, but he still kept that nasal, morbidly amused tone. He wet his lips, then went on, "Kitty didn't know I was doing drugs, only that I was helping to sell them. So one night, she says to me, you've got to stop working for those guys… you know, with the baby coming and all. Well," he chuckled bitterly here, "I couldn't do that. Not just like that. There had to be… another way."

The Joker's eyes strayed as he wet his lips again, and then they returned to Selina's face. "So the next day, I went back to working for those guys, even though Kitty told me not to… They gave me the smack to sell, I went home and cut it, and mixed it so it would be impossible to tell… I had done a little bit of drinking earlier on in the day, so I was already a little fuzzy, but I decided that I would get my fix while Kitty wasn't home… y'know, whatever she doesn't know can't hurt her and all that. Then, while I was getting my fix, Kitty walks in and sees me with the needle… sticking out of my arm." He lifted his arm, as if indicting the inside of his elbow. He closed his eyes momentarily, pausing, then opened them again, wetting his lips, and stared at Selina. "Can you guess what happened next?" he asked. "No? Then I'll tell you."

He opened his mouth, took an exaggerated breath, and then went on, "Kitty started to scream at me. 'I knew it!' she said… 'I knew you were doing drugs!' Well, that wouldn't do… So I got up, and started for her." He grinned here, sadistically. "She wasn't just going to stand there and take it, was she? No… she had to play hard-to-get. Yes-sir-ee," he said in a high, lilting voice full of a maniacal laughter. "She ran. She ran into the kitchen, and she picked up this… knife," he looked away, licking his lips, thinking, then looked back at Selina, "and with this knife in hand, she said, 'Stay away from me!' Well, I couldn't very well do that… she was my wife, after all… so I started for her again…"

The Joker grinned, the horrid scars on either side of his mouth expanding with the expression. "And she said, 'I want nothing more to do with you!' Ha… well, that didn't sit well, not at all. So I said to her, I said, 'Kitty, you never smile anymore. Why do you never smile anymore?'" He gripped Selina's shoulders, pulling his face so close to hers their noses almost touched. "I said to her," he said, his voice a low, guttural growl, "'WHY - SO - SERIOUS?'" He grinned, then started to chuckle, almost as if he did not realize he was doing it. The phrase just seemed to roll off his tongue so smoothly, and he loved it.

Then, his face returning to a slightly blank expression, he looked back at Selina, his mouth hanging open a bit. "Well, she didn't like that," he said, wetting his lips. "Uh-uh. So, uh, so she takes the knife, and she swipes at me with it, trying to keep me back and all…" He looked away, thinking, his tongue running thoughtlessly along his bottom lip, "And it cuts me. Here." He indicated to the side of his mouth where the lesser of the two grinning scars was. "So I turned back to her, and I said, 'Now that's the spirit, Kitty…' And I took another of the kitchen knives… and did the other side myself. Cut right through my cheek… all the way through."

The Joker shrugged, raising his eyebrows, and explained, "Funny thing was, it didn't hurt. The smack they gave me was good. So there I was, with one side of my face cut and the other half cut wide open, and I turned back to Kitty… she looked pretty much horrified by now." He grinned at the thought. "And I said, 'what's the matter, Kitty? Still not smiling? It doesn't hurt!' And she just kept looking at me like I was a monster… which I was," he said airily. His tongue flashed out again, wetting his lips. "And so I grabbed her, and I said, 'what's the matter?! Isn't this the life you wanted?! Isn't this what you always told me you wanted?! Or do you still want to be a ballerina, Kitty?!'" He grabbed Selina by the shoulders and shook her, almost as if he were holding Kitty again. "'Is that what you want, Kitty?! You want to be a ballerina?! Isn't that what you told me you wanted to be when you were a little girl?!'"

He was working himself into a frenzy by now. "I wasn't good enough for her. She was going to leave me to pursue her dreams and find a more suitable husband who didn't take drugs and mangle himself…" He gripped Selina's shoulders tighter. "But I wasn't about to let that happen. She was going to leave with my child. _My child!_ So I decided, then and there… if I couldn't have her, if I couldn't have the baby… then no one could." His expression darkened into a crazed frown. "'You want to be a ballerina, Kitty?' I asked her… 'then DANCE!'"

He pushed himself away from Selina, into an upright sitting position, almost as he had tossed Kitty away. He stood there, panting, glaring at Selina. Then a cruel grin began to split his mangled features. "Well, it was certainly a sight to see," he said. "Her head hit the edge of the counter, and then she fell to the ground… blood started pooling under her head…" He panted, the horrible grin widening. "Well, I couldn't stick around and be found out… so I decided to burn it all down."

The Joker shrugged and grinned at Selina. "Nobody saw my cuts when I ran into the burning building to rescue my darling wife… and when I came out and explained that a collapsing something-or-other had fallen on top of us, nobody asked questions… Nobody suspected poor… snivelling… Jack… Napier." He snickered at this. "They stitched me up all right… and then, when they told me that Kitty and the baby didn't make it, I shed a couple crocodile tears… working on my theatricals. I couldn't have been happier." He licked his lips. "That night, I checked myself out of the hospital. They never saw Jack Napier again."

He grabbed Selina and hoisted her up into his arms, then turned towards the dog cage. Duke barked fiercely, jumping and running against the side of the cage, trying to get at them, slathering and snarling, his eyes wild. The Joker grinned. "It's the Joker, now," he finished. He reached out a hand and unlocked the door, then, with a strong swinging motion, tossed Selina inside the cage, then locked it again.

He turned away from the cage, dusting his hands off, and started towards the doors of the arena. The last thing he heard was Selina's bloodcurdling screams before he exited the underground and emerged, smiling, into the sunlight.

. . .

Bard found the Iceberg without much trouble, and he parked out front, making sure to lock the doors of his car before heading inside. The place was large and softly-lit, giving it a warm, welcoming feeling. Bard had never been inside the Lounge before, but now he was seriously wondering why he had made a point of avoiding it. It did not seem like _such_ a bad place, and the people there did not seem _too_ shifty, but one could never really tell. Bard crossed to the bar and sat down, folding his hands in front of him as he waited for the barmaid to notice him. When she finally did, he smiled at her, and she moved over to see what he wanted.

"Can I help you?" Maggie asked.

"Yes," said Bard. "I'm looking for a Margaret Pye. Perhaps you know her?"

"Vaguely," said Maggie with a smile. "It depends on what you need her for."

Bard smiled. She had a sense of humour, and he could not bring himself to break it down just yet. Even if he was having a bad day, it was not his mission in life to ruin the days of others. He pulled out his wallet and opened it, displaying a picture of Dinah as he fished out a small bill. "I'd love for her to make me a nice cup of coffee, if that's all right," he said, handing the bill to Maggie. Maggie nodded and, smiling, took the bill and began to fix Bard a cup of coffee. Bard glanced over his shoulder at the other people in the Lounge, and then back at Maggie as she set a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. He smiled and nodded to her, picking up the cup and taking a sip.

Maggie bit her lip, watching him, and then asked, "Was that pretty blonde in your wallet your daughter?"

Bard almost spit out his coffee. He coughed, choking as the hot liquid went down the wrong pipe, and then, taking a deep breath, looked up at Maggie, eyes watering. "Uh, no," he said, pulling a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiping at his eyes with it. "She's, uh… she's my girlfriend." He sniffed, looking up at Maggie. "She's actually older than she looks," he told her. He shrugged. "I don't have any children," he admitted.

"Oh," Maggie said, nodding. "Sorry."

"No, that's all right," said Bard with a chuckle, "I can understand the confusion." He finished wiping at his eyes and tucked the handkerchief back into his breast pocket, looking up at Maggie. "Do you have any children?" he asked.

Maggie pulled out her cleaning-cloth, then took a deep breath and shook her head. "No, not yet," she said, starting to clean the counter in her usual nervous fashion. "Though I've been thinking a lot about children, lately.". She smiled, a little embarrassed. "I've always wanted to have a child," she said. Then the smile faded from her face. "I was going to adopt, once," she said. "But it… didn't quite work out."

"Yeah, adoption is a great thing," Bard agreed. "I was adopted."

"Were you?" Maggie looked up in interest.

"Yeah, I was," Bard said with a faint smile. "And I'll always appreciate what my adoptive mother did for me. People who adopt are some of the best people in the world."

Maggie nodded, seeming somewhat distracted. "I suppose so," she said. She offered him a small, sad smile, then went back to cleaning the counter. "We…" She paused, trying to decide how to word it. "We… weren't so lucky," she said. She looked at him for a long moment, then looked away again. "It was a long time ago," she said, shaking her head. "I've tried to forget about it."

"Of course," Bard said, frowning. "I'm very sorry." Bard took another cautious sip of his coffee, and then pulled out his wallet again and, opening it, he removed the picture of Dinah to reveal a Secret Service badge. "Sorry to be so abrupt about this," he told her, "but I'm actually here to do some investigative work."

Maggie's expression instantly turned to one of fear. "The police were just here yesterday, and they found nothing," she said, sounding slightly frantic.

"I know," said Bard, nodding. "I just want to ask you a few questions about something entirely different. You aren't in any kind of trouble." He glanced over his shoulder at the other patrons in the Lounge, then looked back at Maggie. "Is there somewhere we can go that's a little more private?" he asked.

"Oh, sure," Maggie said, nodding. She put her cleaning-cloth behind the counter, then rummaged around until she found a small slip of paper and a pencil, and wrote on it 'Tally – in back room, will return shortly' on it before leaving it on the bar under an empty glass. Then she moved around to the end of the bar and let herself out. "Just this way," she said, moving in the direction of the back room. Bard followed her. Maggie opened the door, letting him in first, and then, looking around to make sure no one was watching her, shut the door behind them.

Bard turned to Maggie, folding his hands together. "My name is Agent Jason Bard," he introduced himself.

"It's nice to meet you, Agent Bard," said Maggie, "even if it is under such odd circumstances."

"Yeah," agreed Bard. "Listen, Miss Pye, I just need to ask you a few questions about the murders of Arnold Wesker and Grace Balin."

The polite smile instantly fell from Maggie's face. "What?" she asked.

"Miss Pye," said Bard, "what can you tell me about the events leading up to the murders?"

Maggie stared at him in stunned silence. "What?" she asked again, her voice faint.

Bard frowned slightly. "You don't know about the murders?" he asked. "I would think you'd be one of the first people to know."

"But…" Maggie looked away, trying to make sense of what he was telling her. Then she looked back at him. "But Os just cleared that up with the police… they got Harvey Dent for it, but he cleared his name, so I… I thought this whole ordeal would be over." She put her head in her hand, overwhelmed, and turned away from Bard slightly.

"Os?" asked Bard, insensitive.

"Uh, Mister Cobblepot," Maggie said, thrown off, turning back to him. "Oswald Cobblepot. He and I own this place. He got off duty yesterday, and he went to go visit Arnold and Grace…"

"Mister Cobblepot was friends with Harvey Dent?" Bard asked.

Maggie looked up at him, hesitated, and then nodded. "Well, yes," she said. "Os and Harvey have known each other for years." She shook her head, folding her arms as if she were cold, then looked up at Bard. "Are you in charge of the investigation?" she asked him. "Did they say who they think it is?"

Bard hesitated, then shook his head. "Sorry," he said. "Harvey Dent was the only suspect we could finger. The case is going to need a lot closer investigation if we're going to find the real murderer."

Maggie nodded, looking away again. "I just… don't know why anyone would want to kill Arnold and Grace," she said. She looked up at Bard, the start of tears in her eyes. "They never hurt a soul."

Bard nodded, putting his hands in his pockets, and looked at the floor. "Yeah," he said. "I'm sorry about their deaths, Miss Pye. Sometimes… life just isn't fair." He looked up at her again. "Would you mind answering a few questions, Miss Pye?" he asked. "I won't ask anything overly intrusive, and if you don't feel comfortable answering a question, then we can skip it. All right?"

Maggie sniffed and nodded.

"All right," said Bard, pulling out a small notepad from his pocket. He took a few steps towards the door, taking a precaution he knew was unnecessary. He had had witnesses try to run from him before, but he knew that Maggie was not that type. However, one could never bee too careful. Bard cleared his throat. "First of all, let me ask you… where were you during the time of the murders?"

"I was here," Maggie answered. "I had bartending and greeting duties all day. I was about to go off-shift in about a half-hour, when Os left to see them."

"All right," said Bard, scribbling down a few notes. "Now, you said that the two people who were murdered were friends of Mister Cobblepot. Is this correct?"

"Yes," Maggie said with a nod.

Bard nodded as well. "Were they your friends, too?" he asked.

Maggie frowned slightly, wringing her hands. "I didn't know them as well as Os," she admitted, "but, had we gotten to know one another better, I'm sure we would have been friends. Grace is one of Os' dearest friends, and she was such a kind soul…"

"So, yes, they were your friends?" Bard asked.

Maggie hesitated, and then nodded. "Yes," she said.

Bard scribbled another few notes in his pad. "Good," he said. "And what is your relationship with Mister Cobblepot, Miss Pye?"

Maggie thought on the question a moment, but, as soon as she opened her mouth to speak, the handle of the door turned and the door opened. Bard instinctly moved back a step, moving slightly more into the shadows of the room on the side of the door. He looked to Maggie to see if it was anything to worry about, but she did not seem to be fazed. Bard was about to move back into his original position when a large black man entered the room. Maggie offered him a faint smile.

"Oh, good, Tally, you're back," she said. "Could you please look after the bar duties for a few minutes? I'm a little bit busy right now, and…" But she did not have time to finish her sentence before the man called Tally pulled a gun from the back of his belt and pointed it at her.

Bard had a split second to think before he stepped forward, grabbed the man's hand, and twisted it behind his back, taking the gun from him. Tally fought against Bard, dealing him a heavy blow with his free arm. The gun went flying out of Bard's hands and skittered across the room, behind some boxes. Bard watched in horror as it slid away, and barely had time to duck before Tally started going at him with his bare fists.

"Maggie, get the gun!" Bard exclaimed, ducking another punch from Tally. The third time Tally went to punch him, however, he blocked it with an angled forearm, then went for a punch, knocking Tally in the face. The big black man took a stunned step back, then went for Bard again. Bard readied himself, his hands flattened, one in front of his face, the other stretched out in front of him, his legs spread, knees bent, ready to attack. Dinah had always made fun of him for having taken martial arts lessons when he had been in the police force, and even he had begun to feel foolish for it, having never had a use for them. Now he was glad he had stayed on until at least blue-belt level before dropping out.

Maggie scrambled towards the boxes, pushing them aside, trying frantically to find the weapon. She glanced over her shoulder towards where Tally and Bard were still throwing punches, searching blindly for the weapon. Maggie let out a discouraged sob of fear as she pushed aside another box, only to be disappointed again. Suddenly, she heard a sharp _crack_, and she turned in time to see Bard fall to the floor, his nose a bloody mess. She gasped, turning around again, and pushed aside another box. This time, she found what she was looking for. Maggie grabbed the gun. "Agent Bard!" she exclaimed, and slid the gun his way just as Tally moved towards him, reaching down to pick him up by the front of his suit. Bard stretched out his arm and grabbed the gun when it was within reach. Without thinking twice, Bard aimed the gun at Tally and fired.

Tally instantly fell back onto the floor. Bard got to his feet, wiping his bloody nose with his sleeve, and Maggie ran up to him, looking down at Tally. "Oh my god!" she exclaimed. She looked up at Bard. "Did you kill him?!"

"No," Bard said, shaking his head. "I just got him in the shoulder." Bard moved away from Maggie, walking over to the man, and pointed the gun at his head, clicking back the hammer. "We still need him to talk," he said.

"Need him to talk?" asked Maggie, frowning. "But…"

Just then, the door of the back room flew open again, and a breathless Cobblepot ran inside. "Maggie?! Where's Maggie?!" he exclaimed, frantic. His eyes travelled over Bard and Tally, and as soon as he saw Maggie, he ran to her, embracing her. "Oh my god, Maggie," he said, holding her tightly, "I was afraid I might lose you!"

"I'm all right, Os!" Maggie said, holding him just as tightly. "Agent Bard saved me."

Cobblepot looked over at Bard, who held the gun firmly to Tally's head, unwavering. He let go of Maggie's waist, moving over to where Tally lay on the ground. A puddle of blood had formed under his left shoulder, and he glared up at Bard and Cobblepot. Cobblepot folded his arms, looking down at Tally. "So," he said. "You killed Arnold and Grace, and tried to frame Harvey Dent for it."

Tally paused, and then nodded.

Cobblepot raised his eyebrows. "And then you tried to kill Maggie, as well, to finish the job," he went on.

Tally hesitated, and then nodded again.

Cobblepot frowned. "You've been working for Warren White behind my back this whole time, haven't you?" he asked, his voice cold.

Tally stared straight at him and nodded once more.

Cobblepot looked at him for a long moment, and then his expression softened as he looked down at the big black man. "I thought you were my friend," he said, unfolding his arms. He took a deep breath, looking up at Maggie, then looked back down at Tally and asked, "Why did you do it, Tally?"

Tally stared at him for a long moment, then took a deep breath and answered, "He paid more."

Cobblepot's expression instantly changed to one of confusion and shock as he looked at Tally. "You… can…?" he began to ask, but his voice trailed off, and he just stood in stunned silence, staring at the man he thought he knew.

Bard cleared his throat, glancing back at Maggie and Cobblepot, then pulled out his handkerchief and wiped at his bloody nose with it. "I'll be glad when the GPD comes," he said. Then he chuckled. "I need to get home to my girlfriend. She'll want to hear about this."

Just then, Tally sprang to his feet with a swiftness unlikely he could possess and grabbed the gun forcefully from Bard's grip, pointing it at the three of them. Bard backed up inbetween Cobblepot and Maggie, staring at Tally in confused bewilderment. "Ain't nobody goin' _nowhere,_" Tally spat. He glanced at his shoulder wound, then looked back at the scared little group, a hateful grimace on his face. "I'm gonna shoot you _all_," he told them. "Then you can see what the fuckin' G-P-D make of it."

"Listen, Tally," Cobblepot stepped forward, "we can talk about this…"

"Shuddup, fag," Tally pointed the gun at Cobblepot's gut. "I'm sick an' tired a' your muthafuckin' queer-ass voice." He clicked back the hammer of the handgun. "An' that's why I'm gonna shoot you first," he announced.

"Os?" Jeanette called when she'd reached the bar. Neither of the owners of the Lounge were anywhere to be found. She couldn't find Tally, either. It was odd (and, she thought, more than a bit suspicious) that they'd all be gone in the middle of the day. Os was too smart to do that in this city. "Maggie? Anyone here?" she tried again, leaning over the counter. No one answered.

She settled back on her feet, completely on-edge. This reeked of foul play. Something had happened. Her thoughts were interrupted by muted conversation coming from another room nearby and then - here she froze, having been about to take a step towards to door - what she knew was the click of a gun's hammer. She immediately darted for the back room, where she thought she'd heard the sound coming from, and whipped open the door to find Tally holding a handgun that was aimed at Os.

Fueled by adrenaline and reactionary response, Jeanette went for the gun first, grabbing it by the barrel against everything she'd ever been told and yanking it out of Tally's hand - the grab sent it skittering across the floor. The element of surprise didn't work as she'd intended, and Tally certainly had muscles, so when his hand clapped down on her head, it _hurt_. Still, it was nothing compared to the clout she'd gotten from Crane's brute, so she shook her head and rammed her elbow into his gut.

It did nothing, and she was rewarded with a shove backwards; she pinwheeled for a moment, but ended up falling into something that crashed - beer bottles. She hit the floor with a thud and could feel a mixture of blood and alcohol dripping down her back, but she gritted her teeth and scrambled to her feet once more, spotting the gun in the middle of the room, Tally reaching for it. They dove at the same moment, but she was faster, and her hand wrapped around the handle of the gun and pulled out of his reach as her side hit the ground; she'd lost her balance. Tally surprised just enough that she could probably ram the hilt into his head and knock him unsteady for a few seconds more, if not unconscious...

But another instinct was triggered in Jeanette's head, and she raised the gun awkwardly, one shoulder against the floor.

It wasn't her way to shoot him. In fact, it was wholly unnecessary to do so. If she'd have just let him live, the police probably could have arrested him and stuck him in prison for attempted homicide. Not to mention it would be much less _messy_ for her if she just knocked him out, or at least incapacitated him long enough for the real cop in the room to handcuff him.

As it was, she aimed the gun up into his looming face and pulled the trigger twice as he turned. The first bullet shot neatly through his eye and lodged somewhere in his head long before his body hit the ground; the second hit his forehead shortly after the first. Then the room was quiet again, save for the faint sound of beer trickling out of the broken bottles on the floor behind her.


End file.
